Twisted Version of Cinderella
by Duilin
Summary: A story of Cinderella told with some characters from the Silmarillion, including the royal family of the Noldor and original characters.
1. Introductions

**Disclaimer! I don't own anything from the Silmarillion, or the theme of Cinderella.**

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><p>I have come to the conclusion that my step-mother absolutely hates me.<p>

Lady Alquasar she is called, for her face is fair and white, hair a golden shade of light, and never once has she been to disappoint the expectant onlookers who wished to see her face upon the morn as Laurelin waxed on the third hour. She is as graceful as a swan, for her name is swan-veil. Her eyes shine like the Mingling—a bright array colors such as blue, green, violet, and hazel.

She is also a blond bimbo in my opinion.

I understand why my father wedded her—she is beautiful, I do not deny that—but I certainly do not understand why she, of all people, would be chosen when there were so many other decent Elf-ladies. My case was not different from Prince Fëanáro, whose mother Queen Míriel Þerindë departed for the Halls of Mandos, never to return, and thus allowing King Finwë to marry again. But my mother did not die of her own choice; she was killed.

But Lord Almarawë is now deceased, and I am left to serve her and her vile offspring that she spawned long before meeting him.

Today, she seemed determined to demean my dignity.

"Silmalir, wake up your step-sisters," Lady Alquasar ordered. "Then prepare the carriage. We are riding out to the palace of Tirion." Then she took one look at my tunic and pants and scoffed. "Change out of those wretched clothes. _Proper_ ladies like I wear dresses."

'Silmalir this, Silmalir that.' She is no lady. She is simply a puppet for the Court to play with.

I grudgingly went to my step-sisters' rooms and roused them from the bed. Then I had to fill washing basins for them, pull out dresses from their wardrobe—all the while complimenting them on how the Trees made their blonde hair glow, how they seemed to get even more attractive after sleep, or some other worthless comment on their appearance, just to boost their extremely large egos. I was surprised that, for once, they did not comment on how tactless my hair was, or even that my face was simply a homely face, and nothing more.

Aicelen and Lohtilin actually seemed nervous. I enquired them politely, but I regretted doing so.

Lohtilin answered with a shaking voice; "We are meeting with the sons of Prince Fëanáro."

As I said before, I regretted questioning their anxiety. "Oh."

Even more ridiculously, Aicelen recited their names with a slight tremor that betrayed her excitement.

I was then introduced to the 'Speech of What I Should Do When Arriving In Tirion,' in which I was told not to speak, not to embarrass them, and not to act foolish. I could not see myself committing any of these acts. Though I was an Elf, I did not exactly possess the grace to draw attention from my step-mother and step-siblings' admirers.

"Now, do not embarrass us, Silmalir," Aicelen told me with earnestness. I wanted to be earnest and punch her in the face, but... "You are but a maid, so you must not draw attention to yourself."

Lohtilin agreed with her older sister. "Indeed, Silmalir. Your face is plain, hair lacking in a glorious shine, and your eyes are an odd shade of blue."

Believe me, I am used to these comments on my appearance. They were raised without moral and hardship, and so they were unable to see true beauty except for their own false assumptions. If the Valar were to put them in a forest filled with edible herbs and plants, they would look down upon it and say that the children of Lady Alquasar are too noble to eat such things.

And speak of the devil!

Said devil entered the room with two gentle taps to the mahogany door. "My beautiful daughters—" Note how she only speaks of _her_ daughters, but it matters not, for I do not wish to be known as a witch's daughter; "—are you ready for the ride of Tirion? The carriage awaits, and you both look even more beautiful than Queen Indis." Lady Alquasar literally showered praises onto her two daughters.

I never knew what it was like to have a mother, but if she was a disgusting kiss-up, then I would prefer to be an orphan.

"My lady," said the butler Arátor from the doorway. "If you would?"

Lady Alquasar nodded and swept from the room dramatically, just like a stuck-up princess who thought the ground was unfit for her to walk. "Come, my daughters!"

Aicelen and Lohtilin left the room, leaving me to ponder if I should continue to wear my tunic. It would be harder to maneuver with a dress...and Lady Alquasar would obviously put down my outfit, saying that I was unfit to wear such elegant clothes.

Perhaps there was _one_ ounce of her that cared for me, but she only showed it through trying to insult me.

Perhaps.

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><p>It turns out, though I should have expected this, I was to ride a horse instead of riding a carriage. I much preferred to sitting comfortably while the stagecoach moved at a leisurely pace. I won't lie—I didn't like riding horses. My thighs were sore from pressing against the saddle, and I was practically doused in sweat. It was not attractive or comfortable. My hair was pulled into a ponytail, but the bangs were clever and moved to fall in front of my eyes.<p>

This, too, was plastered to the sides of my face.

The three witches were probably sitting in the carriage, watching me from the open window as I painfully rode a horse. They would be laughing as I winced every time the horse jumped over a particularly large pebble.

It was even worse when I tried to mount. The poor beast didn't realise that I had no intention of harming him (or her). The end result was that I ended up on the floor with blades of grass stuck all over my clothes. To make it oh-so better, Lady Alquasar insulted my nature of dress.

"You don't look so happy, Silmalir," mused one of my fellow maids, Fánamaril. She rode a horse as well, for only the 'noble' rode with ease. Her appearance was not so much different from mine—drenched in perspiration. "Then again, riding horses is for males. And man-maidens."

I sighed heavily. "My sides and thighs ache. Why did they not make more comfortable saddles to ride?"

"Because," interjected Fánamaril; "males do not need comfort. They only need maidens to fluff their pillows and pamper them with blankets."

I have to admit—I am quite ambitious. Though the family fortune should have been split to me and my step-mother, it seemed to all go to the latter. "If I had it my way, we would be riding carriages, and _they_ would be _walking_." I was too annoyed to reward a lesser fantasized punishment. "But lo and behold, it is not to be."

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><p>We arrived at the palace quite late, and I was not so happy with Lady Alquasar. To say that I was flat-out irritated would have suited better to the situation. She got out from the carriage and was received quite warmly outside by King Finwë, grudgingly acknowledged by Prince Fëanáro, welcomed by Findis, Nolofinwë, Lalwendë, and Arafinwë, and cheerfully greeted by Lady Indis.<p>

I did not see Prince Fëanáro's three sons: Nelyafinwë, Kanafinwë, or Turcafinwë.

Mayhap they were reluctant to see Lady Alquasar. I know I would be.

Of course, only Lady Alquasar, Aicelen, and Lohtilin were welcomed so royally. The rest of us—the _servants—_were dropped like deadweights on the doorstep.

As King Finwë and his family escorted my step-mother and step-sisters into the palace, Prince Fëanáro, the remaining person, smiled at us.

"Hello," he said. "You must all be tired. I am Prince Fëanáro, and I will show you to your quarters."

He was a _lot _nicer than I thought he would be. Lady Alquasar said that he would be rudely silent and stare into souls scorchingly with that stone grey gaze. However, when I looked into his eyes, I saw nothing but kindness.

Then again, Lady Alquasar was always biased towards people that held no admiration towards her.

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><p><strong>Hehe, this is my twisted version of Cinderella, and there are several Prince Charmings.<strong>

**Reviewing: **constructive criticism is appreciated - should I take this fic off of the site, or if not, discontinue it? And would you kindly point out the grammatical errors?

Meanings of Names: (**Note**: the '_insert word_' is Quenya, courtesy of the Quenya name generator from the website named elf-fetish, which should say in the information box below the link that it is a name generator.)

1. Alquasar - 'alqua:' swan; 'wasar:' veil - **swan veil**  
>2. Aicelen - 'aica:' sharp; 'elen:' star - <strong>sharp star<strong>  
>3. Almarawë - 'almare:' blessedness; 'aiwë:' bird - <strong>bird of blessedness<strong>  
>4. Arátor - 'aráto:' champion; 'tor:' brother - <strong>champion brother<strong>  
>5. Fánamaril - 'fána:' cloud; 'maril:' crystal - <strong>cloud crystal<strong>  
>6. Lohtilin: 'lohte:' blossom; 'ilin:' blue - <strong>blossom of blue<strong>  
>7. Silmalir - 'silma:' shining white; 'lir:' song - <strong>shining white song<strong>

And...Lord Almarawë is Silmalir's father, and husband of Lady Alquasar (step-father of Aicelen and Lohtilin.)


	2. Not Ultimately the Worst

**I typed this up, and it took very long. Then I hit the back-space button, and after the epiphany of realizing that I didn't save it, I had to retype it. But it should be as good as the original.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything from the Silmarillion or the theme of Cinderella (the slightly screwed up version that I made up). I own my original characters and feed them cheese puffs every day.**

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><p>I briefly wondered on the second day of my stay: 'Where were the sons of Prince Fëanáro?'<p>

Since they did not attend the 'Greeting,' it tickled my mind as to where they were that day, and though I was loathe to admit it, I couldn't wait to meet them, to see for myself if _it_ was true. And as in _it_, I meant _the rumors_. It was a petty desire, and questionable, but I still wished to encounter them. For some reason, they were never present in any of the halls that I walked, or visible in any garden; although I doubt I would be able ot recognise them either way.

It was rumored that Nelyafinwë had dark red hair that turned gold when Telperion's light touched upon it ever so softly. His face was comely, and his eyes were the color of stone-grey coals, just like his father. Kanafinwë possessed a voice of singing gold, light and beautiful as his appearance, and his prowess with the harp was quite renowned in Tirion. Turcafinwë was light-haired, unlike his brothers, with a fair face and sharp eyes, known to be a great hunter.

This caused me to be itching—and dreading—to meet them.

But I was unable to fulfill my new life's desire, for I was sent to help the servants of King Finwë, washing pots and pans, and exchanging gossip with the all-knowers.

You see, there were three main categories of servants in Tirion, as I was so dutifully informed by my friend Fánamaril. First was the aforementioned: the all-knowers. They knew everything in Tirion, including the latest wine scandal, the arrival of Lady Alquasar, and even in Taniquetil an event that involved an Elf-lord, the Elf-lord's lady, and a distant cousin of the former. Second were the cooking prodigies. Their skills were unmatched. Completely unmatched. I took one whiff of a pastry, and it made my mouth water (I was cruelly denied a taste...). I watched as they deftly chopped vegetables into a cooking pot like Elf-warriors would chop orc into a heap of bloody limbs. Then I stared in awe as one cook engraved the signet of King Finwë onto one of the apples—perfectly.

Last but not least, there were the silver-hands, or as Fánamaril prefers: _ilsa-cambo, _skilled in everything. It is said that they were the personal servants of Queen Indis herself (though she struck me as more of the _malta-cambo _type, which means gold-hands), providing her with exceptional service. I joked to Fánamaril that they were an elite branch of servants, and she solemnly agreed, which worried me to an extent. Elite, indeed. This was proved as I met one who could lit a candle with the snap of her fingers, showed me all of the secret passageways in the palace of Tirion, and warned me omniously about the royal family.

Apparently, the royal family of the Noldor was quite intimidating.

But enough of these thoughts—I turned my attention to cleaning a particularly large pot. Then, my poor attention span was divided as Fánamaril spoke to me.

"Silmalir, don't you ever get tired of being a servant?" she asked. "Don't you ever dream of being noble and donning dresses and attending parties?"

I looked up from my pot, still scrubbing vigorously despite the soreness in my arm. "It never crossed my mind," I admitted. "I do not wish to become Aicelen or Lohtilin. But if I ever rise to power in the name of my father, I'll make it happen for you."

She smiled, still deep in thought, and resumed wiping any leftover water off of the pan that I cleaned not but five minutes ago. I went back to scrubbing the pot a little more slowly this time, staring at the chandelier as I worked in a rhythmic motion. It was true—I had never thought of being one of the nobles. It was something that I did not exactly picture as my lifelong dream to force into reality, yet I didn't even give it a single penny of thought. Maybe there was something wrong with me.

"WATCH OUT!"

I blinked several times before realising that it was a warning, and a warning to tell me to get the Helcar out of the way at that. I stared quite stupidly at Fánamaril, who seemed just as unable to move as I was. Then two hands pulled us back, and my pot fell to the floor with a loud, resonating _clang_.

"I just washed that!" I protested indignantly, watching mournfully as it rolled around pathetically in a half circle. Then it came to a stop.

I glared at the hand that pulled me back and removed it cantankerously. Then I returned my attention to the pot and was just in time to see a flash of colors, too fast to distinguish. But I mainly discerned three colors: red, black, and a light gold.

"Sorry about that," said the hand—I mean, the hand's owner. "Those were the three sons of Prince Fëanáro."

I can't believe my first encounter with the three was the worst encounter ever. Standing up to retrieve the pot that I had washed so diligently for six minutes, I fixed each one of the fading forms with a fierce stare before sitting down on the stool, gathering my washcloth, and scrubbing the stupid pot again. I immediately decided that I did not like them.

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><p>Finally, finally, <em>finally<em>, I was released from the kitchens. There was a part of me that missed the candlelit room with pillars adorning the entrance, as well as the rays of Laurelin filtering around the stone. Then, there was a part of me (mind you, the more abundant part) that relished in seeing the outside world again. Perhaps I am exaggerating, but I was truly relieved to see the blue sky dotted with white clouds.

I let out a huge sigh of contentment and tilted my head up to see the skies more clearly.

"The _fána_ are beautiful, are they not, Fána?" I asked her, using the old nickname that I had always reserved for her.

She smacked me on the shoulder, which was, as Lady Alquasar would call it, very un-ladylike. "Shut up, Silma."

I stuck my tongue out childishly at this statement, and that was when a brilliant idea popped up into my head. "Let us go to the horse stables, Fána." When I saw her '_I refuse'_ look, I got even more pleading. "_Please?_ I know that Aicelen and Lohtinil will most likely be at the horse stables, waiting for those three troublemakers to arrive so they can impress them...and I cannot wait to see what happens! Please?"

Fánamaril seemed to contemplate whether or not to refuse. I decided to up my tactic and widened my eyes pleadingly.

The phrase '_Please, _Fána?' secured my victory and ensured her iron walls' collapse. I resisted the urge to cackle abominably as we received directions and went to the horse stables. Then, Fána recovered from her crushing defeat and asked me pointedly:

"Why are we going to the stables, Silma? You know very well that you don't like riding horses."

"I like watching either Aicelen or Lohtinil ride a horse," I replied cheerfully.

Before she could continue any further, we arrived at the horse stables, where undoubtedly, my step-sisters waited by a random stall. Then, as if on cue, three snickering brothers made their way over to the stables, talking with each other about the incident in the kitchen. I firmly disapproved and felt immediate annoyance rise in the 'emotion chamber' in my mind.

Immense satisfaction—mingled with intense irritation—took over when I saw that one of the three males stopped and stared at Aicelen and Lohtilin. It was the blonde one, Turcafinwë. And the rumors were true indeed; he was fair. Even fairer than Lady Alquasar. The line of the first wife of King Finwë was quite comely, though the line of Queen Indis was respectable as well.

Turcafinwë's voice was so loud that even a deaf Elf (pardon my hyperbole) could hear him, but from a close distance. "Who are they?"

The red haired one, Nelyafinwë, frowned. "I think they are the daughters of Lady Alquasar."

I suddenly decided that I did not wish to hear the rest of the conversation and was about to steer Fánamaril away when Kanafinwë briefly brought us up into the conversation.

"Then what of the two standing by the tree?"

I froze and suppressed the words that I could not help but take out of my mouth. I could not suppress it. "Sweet waters of Cuiviénen."

The tree was, unfortunately, close to the stables, so when Aicelen and Lohtinil ordered for the two of us to come over, I could not pretend to be unable to hear them from such a _great_ distance. Note the wonderful sarcasm I have employed.

Aicelen hissed into my ear the moment I came within her span of striking. "Listen, Silmalir. Just stand there and don't do anything stupid, alright? Let Lohtilin and I do the talking."

I simply nodded obediently. I didn't even like 'them.'

As they walked over, I almost felt...embarrassed. I do not know why, but there was a burning feeling on the tips of my ears that would not vanish. I could not conquer it either, and so I was forced to stand stock-still as the three sons of Prince Fëanáro came over. They got closer and closer, and I had a sudden epiphany: Fánamaril and I were dressed as servants, and it was something that caused me a slight distress. Of course, Aicelen and Lohtinil would dress all prissy and proper and prim, but the clothes I wore—they were truly maid's garb.

"Do you feel...slightly undermined?" asked Fánamaril, exactly voicing my thoughts.

I sighed. "I always feel slightly undermined."

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><p>I did not feel so bad after seeing Aicenel mount a horse. You reap what you sow, and it was purely my step-sister's fault that she ungracefully fell onto her rear end as the horse left her in the dust (I watched as her happy sunshine was reduced to a dim candle). Of course, with the honorable pretense that the three had to keep up, Nelyafinwë helped her up. The irking thing was that Aicenel's face immediately lit up, and she grasped it with renewed spirit. It made me feel better that he winced at the expression on her face.<p>

It was satisfying to know that I was not ultimately the worst to mount or dismount a horse gracefully.

Of course, my satisfaction was short-lived as a slender maid came running toward us—giving a weary glance towards _them—_with an urgent expression on her face. The first thing and only thing she said was, "Fiondo needs you in the banquet hall."

I didn't need any other reminder that I was supposed to be with the servants. Fánamaril and I said polite goodbyes to Nelyafinwë, Kanafinwë, and Turcafinwë. And immaturely, I didn't say pay my respects to 'Lady' Aicelen and 'Lady' Lohtinil.

Oh, I know. I am so childish.

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><p><strong>Thank you, my two faithful reviewers. You know who you are.<strong>

Meaning of Names: (**Note**: the '_insert word'_ is in Quenya.) Courtesy of Elf-fetish Quenya Name Generator

1. Fiondo - 'fiond:' hawk; 'indo:' heart (mood)

**Go on. Click that button. Right there.**


	3. Odd Sense of Humor

**Check out my poll: The Best Prince Charming out of the Seven Sons of You-Know-Who (and it's not VOLDEMORT, SILLY!)**

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to Lord of the Rings, Silmarillion, or the theme of Cinderella.**

**Oh, and...did you know that Silmalir is a jacked-up anagram of Silmaril? I just realized it...and I'm still mind-blown. I think I spelled anagram right...**

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><p>Makalaurë waited for Maitimo and Tyelkormo at the doors. Yesterday had been quite a day, especially the event in the kitchen. He distinctly remembered Tyelkormo dropping the pie into an unsuspecting Lady Alquasar's arms, and the expression on her face at having arms full of pie was priceless. Then he remembered the not-so-exciting aspects of it—meeting Lady Alquasar's daughters, Aicenel and Lohtinil.<p>

They were indeed fair; the poets were as true as their word, but they lacked severely in the ability to adapt, what with servants waiting on them during Laurelin and Telperion's light.

"Did we keep you waiting, Makalaurë?" Maitimo asked.

"You were very prompt," he replied with a straight face. "I am glad we are going to help out at the banquet hall—"

"—for then we shall be able to avoid Lady Alquasar's daughters," finished Tyelkormo. "They raise their noses at anything involving dirty work."

"Let us go then," Maitimo said cheerfully. "I do not wish to encounter them on the way to the banquet hall."

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><p>I sat upon a high stool, staring at the garland that circled the room. It reminded me of stars in a sky, for though it did not shine, it fit in perfectly with the colors of the alabaster walls. The large room itself was lit with light from Laurelin, and the white roses between the clumps of ivy vines were bestowed a brilliant sheen of a chalkish-ivory. I had then come to a conclusion that the servants of the palace were much more versed than the servants of Lady Alquasar's house.<p>

Upon this conclusion, I felt absolutely no shame; in fact, I could not wait to learn from them.

Fánamaril stood beside me, holding a piece of parchment and small wooden board in her hands. When she looked up, it seemed that she was checking off each of the criteria to see if it were adequate enough to present to the royal family and Lady Alquasar's family. Then she met my eyes and smiled. We exchanged looks and turned to our own work—my work being an excruciatingly long list of guests that I was to place in a seat. Basically, I was given the task of seating arrangements with the third section of the table, and the left-over names that had not been crossed out were my duty sort.

Beside each name was a description of the Elf, and I wondered why, if Fiondo had bothered to put hand-written information under each name, couldn't she sort the names herself in three minutes? I mentioned this to Fánamaril earlier, and she simply pursed her lips and shook her head in exasperation.

If I had not the patience of dealing with Lady Alquasar, Aicelen, and Lohtilin, I would have thrown the scroll down (yes, the guest list was that long) and stormed out of the hall, screaming up and down the palace halls about how unfair it was that I, a newcomer in the palace, would have to be assigned one of the most painstaking tasks that required discretion unless I wished for someone to be under the impression of utter offence in the name of King Finwë!

Alas, I have patience, so I do not really have a valid statement that allows pardon. Fánamaril has seen the extent of patience that I exert every single day, and I remember quite frankly reaching the zenith of my patience, as it was wearing very, very thin. I also recalled it to be yesterday, in the kitchens.

I looked over three names at a time: _Lord Hyandaman, Lord Axoluntë, Lord Airacurwë. _It impressed me that there were so many Elf-lords in Tirion—and a dwindling amount of Elf-ladies, evidently excluding Lady Alquasar and her rogue offspring.

Fiondo came over to look at my work, which I had nearly finished by then. She raised a fine eyebrow several times at what I had done, but nodded.

"Satisfactory, I suppose. That is to be expected though; you are new here."

I did not shrug, as I would have liked. I was interrupted before I could.

"Lord Nelyafinwë! You and your brothers are not allowed in the banquet hall 'til dinner!"

As if it made a difference—they were going to come into the doors at dinner; why not allow them in now? It would show them more etiquette than to run around stealing pies and dropping them into random ladies' arms (which I found out, to my amusement, to be Lady Alquasar).

"Oh, come off it, Ringalannë, we just want to help," said a voice that I recognized to be Turcafinwë's. "It would help you all finish a lot faster, and then you will be able to relax!"

It was a tempting offer, for all of us were getting tired of all the parchment, garland—despite the pretty rose flowers—and table-setting. After all, the plates still had to be arranged, and the silverware as well, in the proper position.

Then, the two cursed words came out of Ringalannë's voice (so much for cold-cloth!*); "Ask Fiondo."

The three brothers came over to where Fiondo stood, which happened to be right next to where Fánamaril and I were. When they were in close proximity, Fiondo had an outright smirk on her face. If I were one of the sons of Fëanáro, I would have been afraid. Fiondo and smirks were not a good combination—or, rather, they were interrogating smirks. She would barrage you with an inhumane amount of questions. I learned this the hard way yesterday, when Ringalannë came to us saying that Fiondo needed us in the banquet hall.

Fánamaril and I were subjected to 'A Thousand Questions on Where You Were When I Needed You in the Banquet Hall,' courtesy of a certain head-servant, and by the end of the interrogation, I was so tired that I couldn't even pick up a plate and drop it onto the table.

"Well, well, my lords," said Fiondo. "Why the sudden urge to help out, hmm?"

Nelyafinwë smiled. "Aiding others is a refreshing experience. The bond that is created is reward enough."

_More like punishment, _I thought.

"Are you trying to hide from someone?"

Ha, caught dead. I took one glance at the elder brother's face and saw shock at being discovered, surprise that he was read like a book, and guilt that he had been caught. I have to admit, he was like an open book. Before he turned to meet my eyes, I had already looked down with a slight smirk mirroring Fiondo's.

"I assure you that we are not hiding from anyone," said Kanafinwë smoothly.

"You are not hiding from Lady Aicelen and Lady Lohtilin?" Fiondo countered. Ah, my memory failed me; Fiondo was in the category of the all-knowers. She had obviously heard about Aicelen's disaster with the horse from Ringalannë. Servants were just full of surprises, were they not? I think Fiondo would have refused their help, if not had it been for their pleading looks and reluctant admittance that, yes, they were hiding from my step-sisters.

In the end, I came to the realisation that I was finished with my task, and so I was to help set the plates. I wordlessly handed her the parchment and set off to the kitchen—adjoined to the banquet hall, surprisingly enough—to receive plates. She spoke before I could fully be out of hearing range: "Take one of them with you."

I suppose I really couldn't have put on a surprised expression and said, "What, _me? Why?_" Instead, I grudgingly linked arms with one of them (I didn't bother to see who it was) and dragged him away without much resistance. Why me?

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><p>It turns out, I had dragged away Kanafinwë and received many odd looks from the servants all around, especially from the females. I had not seen his face yet, so when they stared after us, I wondered frankly if there was something on my face, or if my hair was in disarray, or something that detracted from my already detracted appearance, as Aicelen or Lohtilin would put it. Then I wondered, for just <em>one<em> moment, I promise you, if Kanafinwë remembered my name, or at least my face.

"Silmalir!" greeted Rínaquinë, the cook that I mentioned earlier (the one who engraved the emblem onto the apples). Then her eyes widened considerably, and I thought, _Wow, I didn't know an Elf's eyes could get that big..._ "Lord Kanafinwë?"

Orc-dung. I mean, I personally didn't care which of the sons it was, but surely I didn't have to pick, in my opinion, the most handsome one?

"Hello, Rínaquinë," his voice greeted. It was silkier than I remembered.

Orc-dung, orc-dung, orc-_dung!_ There was no doubt that this was Kanafinwë, the wonderful poet. I turned around to see if it was true, that my ears were not playing tricks on me. My gaze was met with an icy blue one, and I almost wanted to wince at how intense it was. But I held my ground, and thankfully, I did not make a fool out of myself.

"Your name is Silmalir?" he asked, the corners of his mouth twitching.

I think he found it amusing that I frankly resembled an elfling caught with a hand in the cookie jar, or in this case, caught linked arm-in-arm with one of the most handsome Elves in Tirion. By said handsome Elf. My expression was probably not unlike a shocked expression of Lady Alquasar realizing that I had been invited to a gala that only nobles attended. Without her knowing of it. Of course, she came into knowledge after seeing my face there...

Because I couldn't speak (I was shocked, could you blame me?), I only nodded. He allowed his mouth to curve into a smile.

"I am Kanafinwë." Forget what I said earlier about not making a fool of myself.

"Evidently," I deadpanned.

**Balrog-dung. **Valar help me—I was definitely going to be spending a long time in the Halls of Mandos.

To my infinite surprise, and relief, he broke out into a grin and turned to Rínaquinë. "Where are the plates?"

Rínaquinë simply pointed to a _tower_ of pearl-white plates with golden flowers and sapphire gems decorated on the bottom. Perhaps King Finwë had a sense of humor and wished for his guests to look like absolute idiots when they tried to examine the bottom of their plates. Or perhaps it is just me that sees the stupid side of things.

"Let us get started, shall we?" Kanafinwë said cheerfully, taking a small stack of plates into his hands.

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><p>I found out that Kanafinwë was quite funny.<p>

"What do you call five elves balanced on the Mindon?" He has an odd sense of humor. But mine was probably even odder.

"A black, black blasphemy."

Kanafinwë chuckled. "Your answer is better than mine."

We had quite a nice time setting the table, a very long table that extended from the high seat of King Finwë to the other end of the room, which was directly open to a beautiful rose garden and pond. Tirion was beautiful, and those who did not pay the respect that was due were foolish.

He was very polite as well—not at all what I thought him to be when he and his brothers sped through the kitchens like ruffians. The plates were very heavy, so I had to be very painstaking in setting one while holding a few in my other hand. It took time, and he finished before me with just as much gracefulness and diligence, but he waited for me to finish so we could walk back together. I told him that he didn't have to wait and that it would delay the process, but he adamantly stood there, humming.

At last, we finished, and I was immensely relieved at being rid of heaving plates. I wrung my hands and washed them in a basin filled with water, that I had graciously filled for both of us, wiping them on my apron.

Then, it was an hour before dinner, and Kanafinwë had to arrive in decent clothes. He bowed elegantly and smiled.

"Thank you for your time, Silmalir."

* * *

><p><strong>I just have one question: Is Silmalir a Mary-Sue?<strong>

Meaning of Names:

1. Hyandaman - 'hyanda:' blade; 'aman:' blessed - **blade that is blessed  
><strong>2. Axoluntë - 'axo:' bone; 'luntë:' boat - **bone boat  
><strong>3. Airacurwë - 'aira:' copper-colored; 'curwë:' craft - **copper-colored craft  
><strong>4. Ringalannë - 'ringa:' cold; 'lannë:' cloth - **cold cloth*  
><strong>5. Rinaquinë - 'rina:' crowned; 'quinë:' crest - **crowned crest**

**To be continued...with a fire in the banquet hall!**

Are you brave?

Go on then. Press that button _right_ there. Then type your review, and your job is done!


	4. Fire! Fire!

As servants, we were not permitted to attend such great banquets. It was not because of our status, but because of our state of dress, and our inability to find something suitable and elegant to wear. I know that I would have been able to if I had bothered to steal a dress from my step-sisters, but I was simply too lazy.

But I like to think that being lazy is high motiviation not to do anything.

It was basically a dinner for the noble, and I really did not wish to attend anyway, so I stayed in the servants' quarters with Fánamaril and the other servants, reading about the Sarati in an attempt to learn something new. My eyes had started to hurt an hour ago after getting through half of the symbols.

"Silmalir, how was it?"

I looked up from the book I was intently reading—oh, who am I kidding? I was distracted. Thankfully, something saved me from my torture. It just so happened to be a group of servants (all female, if you would note), and they each had a distinctly curious gleam in their eyes.

"How was what?" I repeated, puzzled.

"Working with Lord Kanafinwë," explained Ringalannë.

Huh? "Um...well... It is not any different from working with all of you," I responded. "What do you mean?"

"You didn't feel...swept off of your feet?"

This confused me even further. "Was I supposed to?"

She shook her head and turned to the others. "Nothing." Then she sat down next to Fánamaril and I, gesturing for the others to sit on any other available stool. "Tell us about working with Lord Nelyafinwë, Nallar."

The Elf-maiden named Nallar spoke excitedly about how handsome Nelyafinwë was, and how she just felt light-headed staring at him. Was that how I was supposed to feel with Kanafinwë? I admit that I did feel a bit excited about working with him, but it faded into more of a mutual friendship and joy at getting something done. And aching in my arms from carrying those Valar-forsaken plates up and down the table. I was seriously starting to think that there was something wrong with me, and I was about to bring up the subject with Fánamaril until there was _another_ interruption.

I didn't understand it—the fact that I am always being interrupted in the palace of Tirion was starting to tire me out.

"There is a fire in the banquet hall!" wheezed a servant who had evidently run from the banquet hall (west wing of the palace, first floor) to the servants quarters (east wing, second floor).

I am not sure who reacted the most quickly: Ringalannë or Fánamaril, though I am quite sure that I followed only Fánamaril to the stairs. As we ran, I thought of all the ways that the fire could have started, and all the ways that it could kill an Elf. Then we arrived at the balustrade, and I finally understood why the servant was so tired—it was a staircase that led into the main entrance room, but it was an extremely long and _huge staircase. I have never seen the main entrance room; it was the servant's quarters for me, and mini-staircases and ladders that broke into the second floor._

I exchanged a glance with Fánamaril, and it was decided. Now, when you read sentence after this, do not get a heart attack; we did this all the time in the grand house of Lady Alquasar.

I positioned myself onto the banister sideways and began my descent to the first floor. You could say that I regretted doing so, for I felt myself almost falling off at some point, and it sent a chill up my spine at dying so easily. I didn't see the harm in it at first.

Valar, I am an idiot. I couldn't see harm if it punched me into a cliff.

Ringalannë, who had graciously taken the stairs, gasped as we landed on the cold marble tiles, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

That was short-lived as screams came from the banquet hall on the left, and shouts of, "FIRE! PUT OUT THE FIRE!" Then: "DON'T USE THE WINE!" I know wine isn't flammable—or, at least, the wine that I used on fire at a point in my life—but I wasn't so sure about this wine.

The three of us rushed towards the banquet hall then, and I couldn't get a good glimpse of the fire. There were tons of people crowding all around a section of the table, and it just so happened to be the section that I couldn't reach. I turned around to tell someone to get water, but Ringalannë was already hauling a bucket of...water? Then we had to force our way through, with me occasionaly pushing someone out of the way quite rudely, or Fánamaril shoving one Elf onto another and shouting "Move!"

I managed to get through and nearly fell onto the table, and finally, Elves cleared an aisle for Fánamaril and Ringalannë to get through. Why they didn't do it for me I will never know. But I did not think of at first, for I stood gaping at the 'fire.'

To my extreme shock, Nelyafinwë was hurriedly trying to stomp out the fire that Lady Alquasar bore on the train of her dress. It was also to my extreme amusement, for, as Ringalannë neared, she threw the water (as it turned out to be used feet-water) onto the dress, effectively drenching Lady Alquasar, Nelyafinwë's boot, and the part of the table that hindered further passage. Everyone else breathed sighs of relief, and though he would probably deny it later, King Finwë's mouth twitched at the corners.

As soon as she was helped up, Lady Alquasar, drenched and miserable, raced out of the room with a humiliated cry, followed closely by her daughters Aicelen and Lohtilin. I didn't bother to follow, and neither did Fánamaril. But then, a hand was placed on my shoulder, and I started to wish that I had gone after her.

I was quite relieved when I saw that it was Kanafinwë, and his eyes were filled with mirth despite the face that my step-mother was utterly embarrassed in front of the entire audience of noble lords in Tirion. As for the fact that several lords were acting quite unlordly and smiling goofily after Lady Alquasar, I was still in quite a shock that it had happened. I was also curious as to how it happened, and I was going to find out.

"How did it happen?" I asked tentatively, unsure of what I was expecting to hear.

Kanafinwë grinned, and the thin (thin, mind you) loyalty that I had for Lady Alquasar nearly took over. But he saw my shocked expression and dropped any emotion except for a slightly amused air.

"Well..." he began. "Have I ever told you that I hate banquets?"

* * *

><p><strong>Makalaurë:<strong>

I hate banquets. I hate them with an upmost passion to the point where any invitation would burn within a five-mile radius of me, and no, I do not care for whoever invites me. Even if it was Mother herself, telling me that I had to attend one, I would have immediately hid in the dark corner of my cloest with nothing but my harp, some of Rínaquinë's pies, and a large vat of handmade lemonade. Although...I do have doubts about fitting a large vat into a dark corner in my quite-small closet. Besides, Mother would never force me into something I have no love for.

I also doubt that Rínaquinë would give me any of her precious pies...

And, I still have to attend the stupid banquet, where Lady Alquasar and her cursed daughters will be present as well.

Now, I know that you think I am contradictory in doing by allowing myself to appear, but I have a valid reason.

My grandsire, King Finwë, asked for me to play at the banquet that very day, which is today, and how could I resist? Mother approvingly informed me of this, and Father agreed immediately. Of course, I broke down when Father told me his input, because music holds almost no interest for him except for the fact that his second son is practically a gift from the Vala of music. That, entirely consisted of three sentences, is my valid argument.

You would do it too, if your father, who never seemed to give a single bird-dropping as to what you did on your afternoons, suddenly insisted that you play at the banquet that you had been so set on avoiding. Deep down, he cared for me, and I knew it, but sometimes a person had doubts, like me trying to force a big vat into a dark corner.

Then, there was the chance that I would see a new friend of mine, Silmalir, at the banquet. I was quite disappointed when she did not show, and it was evident in the playing of my harp. I did not stumble on any notes, but there was a flat tone behind it that plainly spelled out: 'The person I want to see is the one that I do not see.' I came to the cognizance that she did not attend because she could not, and perhaps, she did not want to either.

I suppose you want to know about the incident at the table, in the section where Lady Alquasar just so happened to sit next to Maitimo, who I sat across from. Just _so_ you know, I am perfectly aware that Silmalir was in charge of the seating arrangements, thus making it perfect for the accident to come to fruition.

Maitimo reached for the jug of water (he didn't drink wine) situated between them, just as Lady Alquasar reached for her napkin. As she turned to wipe her mouth—note that Maitimo would never purposely set fire to one of Grandfather's guests—his elbow hit the candle that illuminated the plates. And this is completely irrelevant, but Grandfather's sense of humor is beautiful; I saw several people try to look at the bottom of their plates, and they looked quite gullible.

Back to the subject—the candle was knocked to the floor, and the train of Lady Alquasar's dress caught fire.

No one noticed it until she screamed. Everyone who had not been paying attention her was now fixed on how the glow of the fire lit up her face, but I saw the problem.

"Fire," I confirmed aloud, and she screamed even louder.

I saw one of the servants—Riellondë, I think—dash out of the room, no doubt to alert everyone in the castle of a fire in the banquet hall. Everyone was in quite a shock, which was pretty unimaginable for an Elf, and only Maitimo reacted correctly.

Or not.

Lady Alquasar, in her haste to put it out herself, got out of the chair, but her foot caught in the hem of her dress, and she fell to the floor with a fire that stayed at the train of her dress. I watched as she inelegantly hit the marble with her arms splayed out in front of her. A golden ringlet already started to unravel, and in her distress, came out of her ponytail.

Maitimo started to stomp out the fire, but it wouldn't diminish. I just sat there in my seat, holding a goblet to my mouth as others fluttered anxiously around the Elf-lady. If I had tried to help, she would have been a pile of ashes by the end of this fiasco.

"Fire! Put out the fire!" ordered Queen Indis.

I saw Turcafinwë raise a jug of wine as if to put out the fire, but one of the daughters of Lady Alquasar—Lohtinil—gasped;

"Don't use the wine!"

Wine didn't preserve fire, to my knowledge, but you could never be too sure with wine in the palace.

Then, I watched as Silmalir nearly fell onto the table in her struggle to break free from the crowd of Elves. The question of why she was here stayed in my mind for a while, and I waited for her reaction to what was happening before all of us.

It was priceless; she stood there, staring at Lady Alquasar.

Suddenly, the Elves spread out slightly to make a small aisle for two Elves abreast. Two maidens stepped out from the crowd, and one flung the water over the table and at the fire. The water was a not-so-clear color—evidently already used. At least the fire was put out.

However, Lady Alquasar all but ran, extremely mortified, from the room with her two daughters closely behind. Silmalir still stood there, staring at the soot-stained tile of marble and Maitimo's boot. The latter exchanged a sheepish smile with me, and I returned it with an amused shake of my head. Then I placed the goblet down and got up from my seat, approaching Silmalir very carefully.

I put a hand on her shoulder, and she tensed, before turning to face me with relief plastered on her face.

"How did it happen?" she asked uncertainly.

I couldn't help it; a grin made its way onto my face as I remembered distinctly what happened. But, to show respect to who she served, I dropped the grin and tried to suppress my obviously entertained expression. "Well... Have I ever told you that I hate banquets?"

* * *

><p>After I listened to the entire incident from Kanafinwë, I couldn't help but imagine the sound of Lady Alquasar's screaming, and the thought of it almost made me wince when I thought about how many Elves had heard her—not just in the palace, but the whole city of Tirion as well! This was an event that I would most likely never forget.<p>

Kanafinwë went off to speak with his brothers, and Ringalannë made her way over to Fánamaril and me with a disconcerted look on her face.

"What's wrong?" Fánamaril inquired.

Ringalannë opened her mouth. Then she closed it, as if not knowing where to begin.

Finally, she said, "You know the water that I used to extinguish the fire?"

Both of us nodded.

"It was feet-water."

Fána gaped at Ringalannë with her mouth wide open.

"_Feet-water?"_ I gasped. I did not give a thought about it earlier, but now that I think back on it, my reaction surprised all three of us.

I clapped my hand over my mouth and smothered my laughing.

* * *

><p><strong>I'm kind of getting the gist that Silmalir is becoming a Mary-Sue. And Makalaurë was a bit out of character? Then again...the entire story is Out-Of-(character)Story.<br>I am also aware that Fëanor wedded Nerdanel and sired seven sons _before_ Indis became queen.**

Meaning of Names:

1. Nallar - 'nalle:' dale; 'ar:' day - **dale day  
><strong>2. Riellondë - 'riell:' garlanded; 'rondë:' hall - **garlanded hall**

One question (for the sake of the plot): What do you think about Fána/Tyelkormo fluff? Like, not a full relationship (Celegorm wasn't wedded in the Silmarillion) or anything, but a small crush. But if you want more of a Tyelkormo/Irissë, I respect that too, but I won't be able to add it into the story. I think. Add it to your review if you want your opinion to be heard.

**Pressss itsss...**

**Pressss itsss...**

**FOR THE LOVE OF ERU, PRESS IT!**


	5. The Valar Must Hate Me

**I don't own anything that Professor Tolkien created, or the theme of Cinderella.**

**And thanks to all you faithful reviewers! You make me so giddy.**

* * *

><p>I personally think that the Valar love to play games with an unfortunate Elf's life.<p>

That unfortunate Elf would be me.

"Silmalir!" I turned around to see an excited Fánamaril running towards me, her plain brown dress billowing out behind her in folds. "Silmalir!"

Realizing that I would not be able to run far enough to get away, I stopped walking and waited for her to catch up patiently. Meanwhile, birds chirped in the sky, and trees stayed ever unmoving as always, except for a slight rhythmic ruffling of the leaves. Fánamaril had matched my pace by then, and we went calmly into a random direction, simply enjoying the crisp, clean air of spring.

"What is it, Fánamaril?" I asked, bemused at what had caused her to take off so suddenly and seek my counsel. Or something along the lines of that.

Fánamaril's mouth quivered with excitement, and she shot me one look before turning away, unable to meet my questioning gaze.

"Well..." she said.

"Yes?" I prompted.

She turned to me and said something completely indiscernible in a flurry of nonsensical sounds.

"Slow down and say it again."

"We'regoingonanexcursion!"

I closed my eyes and sighed. Then I reopened them. "Slower," I ordered.

"We are going on an excursion," she repeated dutifully, words slightly marred by that unmistakable tremble. "King Finwë decided that the palace was almost like a confinement to him, so he has decided to allow us all out into the streets of Tirion."

I comprehended this as slow as Fánamaril said it fast. My response was quite intelligent as well: "Huh?"

She shook her head in exasperation, and then I finally understood.

"Oh! Alright. I suppose I have to go then."

"_Have to?_ What do you mean, _have to?_ We're finally getting away from the palace, and we can explore new neighborhoods! Tell me you aren't serious when you say you _have to!_" she exclaimed as if I had personally spat on the name of King Finwë himself.

I cringed as I saw how much attention she was bringing. "I mean...that I would be _delighted_ to go, but I'm not too sure about exploring." I grudgingly admitted to myself that I did want a break from all this grandness—the palace, Lady Alquasar's house, and the palace... Oh, did I mention the palace already?

Then, I was distracted as a _colony_ of Elves made their way outside the territory of the courtyard. Fánamaril grinned and dragged me back into the palace, which caused me to become very confused and befuddled at what she was doing.

"I thought you wanted to go outside the palace!" I protested, trying to free myself from her grasp. It sounded more like a question than a declaration, really.

She looked at me through the corner of her eyes and shook her head. "Surely you aren't going to walk out of the palace dressed in _this? _It is a day off, Silmalir, and we should appreciate it to the best of our ability." At least she had a sympathetic look when she faced me again; I must have looked very pathetic. "Now come—let's get you into _real _clothes."

* * *

><p>I finally knew what Fánamaril meant by <em>real<em> clothes: a tunic, pants, hunting leathers, and a leather string that held my hair up out of my face. It effectively stayed out of my sight—except for those cursed bangs that I did not cut when I had the chance. (I should have taken the chance.) Fána dressed similarly to me, and I commented that we dressed more like escapees instead of Elves going on a relaxing outing permitted by the king of the Noldor.

I now possess an aching right shoulder and hurting collarbone. Apparently, my friend has better aim than I do, because, after that remark, she tried to press down on a pressure point, and I tried to dodge. I banged my shoulder against one of the beams (they should feed the architect to the dogs). I also managed to hit my collarbone.

While we walked the streets with a carefree air, I tried moving my shoulder carefully.

"I think I managed to dislocate it," I said finally, after realizing that continuously exercising it would not make the pain go away. "It still hurts."

Fánamaril rolled her eyes, but they had a look of slight worry. "Perhaps we should go to a pharmacy then, so you can get it checked."

All I gave her as an inclination of agreement was a nod.

Somewhere along the way, we met up with Ringalannë and Rínaquinë, both of whom laughed at what happened, and I decided that I didn't want to go to the pharmacy after all, and that it would simply be a nice bruise in the morn of the next day.

After that business was finished, we wandered into one of the big squares, with a giant fountain and lovely carvings that depicted the making of Aman. I heard the most beautiful music then, and I broke away from the group to follow it. It seemed to draw me down several roads, where I passed many stalls and shops, and at last I came to a stop down a street that, on one side, faced a grassy plain.

The most astounding thing—okay, maybe it wasn't exactly earth-shaking—met my eyes.

Kanafinwë, in all his glory, sat on a large, protruding root of the tree, suitable and shaped for resting. In his hand he held a harp, and with the other he strummed, singing a song to the little elflings that crowded around him, listening intently and gleefully. He seemed to look into every single one of the children's eyes—then he caught sight of me. A smile formed on his lips, and he motioned me over as soon as the song ended and the elflings left, chattering excitedly.

"Silmalir," he greeted.

"Lord Kanafinwë—" I responded politely, but he cut me off quite quickly.

"Please. Just call me Makalaurë."

I nodded dutifully and continued. "You play wonderfully."

This only served to make his smile wider. "Would you like to try?" he asked, holding out the harp in his elegant hands.

A bit of fear took over me, and I shook my head, backing away.

"Even my show curtains boo me," I said in an attempt to explain that I would probably break the harp before I even broke anyone's ears. This elicited a lot of laughter from K—Makalaurë, and I wasn't sure whether or not to be relieved or offended. But his expression was light—so I simply plopped down onto a root a slight two feet away from him.

As sudden as it was, I felt something thrusted into my hands. Almost as if preordained, the harp (evidently it was the harp; what do you think Makalaurë put into my hands—himself?) slipped from my fingers, and my initial response was to catch it. Makalaurë, sensing that something bad would happen, reached out to catch it as well, and then...

Well, let's just say that I didn't catch the harp, but I did catch his hands. Or he caught mine. Either way, the harp fell to the floor with a clang, and I looked on in horror.

At my hands.

I was holding hands...with the son of Prince Fëanáro.

And by the look on his face, he was thinking the exact same thing.

It wasn't an unpleasant feeling, I assure you. It was more of a warmth that spread through my fingers and up my arm, stirring fuzzy feelings from my stomach. Then it was more of an electric shock as both of us pulled away, and I felt very, _very_ mortified. I carefully picked up the harp without looking at him, and he took it wordlessly.

Awkward...

* * *

><p><strong>Makalaurë:<strong>

I should have known she was clumsy when she warned me, but instead, I just had to put the instrument in her hands. But I didn't know that her hands were so soft. They were like Mother's, slender and smooth. Then again, I associate every maiden's hands with Mother's, so I cannot really say that I haven't done it before.

I think I embarrassed her. She refused to meet my eyes, despite my staring at her. Odd; it always worked with little Caranthir.

Then I realized what I was doing, at the latest point in time possible.

At least we both pulled away, so there would be no further humiliation. She gave me back the harp, and I held it awkwardly in one hand.

_That_ was the beginning of the longest silence I had ever been through.

* * *

><p><strong>WARNING: Although this should have been at the top, I'm sorry this chapter is slightly shorter than the others...but I couldn't find a way to continue with awkward silence.<strong>

**Caranthir will be introduced in the next chapter.**

Mother: Nerdanel, obviously.

And one little thing: in this story, only three sons of Fëanor are grown-up, along with their father's half-brothers and half-sisters, with Caranthir still a child and Curufin unborn.

**You know what to do.  
>(And that doesn't mean take the cookie.)<strong>


	6. Don't Swear in Front of a Child!

**This is mostly a filler chapter that builds up to more of the drama-packed parts. But first, no awkwardness, right? Well, read on, my avid readers!**

**Disclaimer: yada, yada. Yeah. I don't own anything of the Silmarillion, reference to Ungoliant, or the screwed up theme of Cinderella. My OCs don't like to be owned either...so... :(**

* * *

><p>If an Elf could die of embarrassment, I would have already been through my sixth life of humiliation after continuous re-embodiment.<p>

"Silmalir! You have to come out eventually!" Fánamaril shouted from outside my door. "We have _work_ to do!"

"I'm not coming out until I'm dead!" Perhaps I was overreacting a _little_. Though, by the Valar, I wasn't going to change my attitude any time now...

She continued to knock on my door, but I did not open it. Or bother to get off of my stomach on the super-soft bed.

Ai, Valar, why did this have to happen to _me? _Now I wouldn't be able to face Makalaurë, and I almost wanted to see him again because of the fact that we were fresh friends... Something doesn't sound right about the two words 'fresh friends...'

"Valar, Silmalir! Get out here and stop muttering about fresh fruits!"

"Never! I'll mutter about rotten fruits if it makes a difference!" Rotten friends... But that certainly wasn't what Makalaurë and I were... But what _were_ we?

"SILMALIR!"

"Yes?"

"_Please_ open the door?"

I pushed myself off of the bed and walked over to the wooden door, pressing my ear against it ever so carefully (Elven ears, despite what they tell you, are very, _very_ sensitive to touch). "Why should I?"

"So I can slam it against your _head!_ Those are my chambers too, you know!"

"Oh." I opened the door without trouble this time, and outside was a frowning Fána. "I forgot. I'm sorry."

She strode into the room, eyeing my pathetic position of listening at the door like an eavesdropper as she walked. "What is wrong with you today?"

Trust friends to put things bluntly when they want nothing but the truth. I eyed the door longingly now, the open door that I could run through in five seconds flat, and then I would be able to escape all these interrogations. Several people from the hallway looked back, as if trying to trace what I was gazing at. Then they would come to the conclusion that I was staring at my reflection in the shiny door, which was what most vain people thought.

"Well... I'm lazy," I said in a lame attempt to give her a decent lie.

Fánamaril snorted. "We've already covered that. Don't feed me lies."

"Let's go to work...?"

"So _now_ you want to work? You said you would not come out 'til the bells tolled for thee."

"I'm already three hundred and seven years old! I can have mood swings if I want!" I argued. It was pointless anyway.

She pursed her lips and shook her head. "I won't ask if you won't tell. Come on. I bet even the child in the womb of Lady Nerdanel could hear me screaming."

* * *

><p>"You are late."<p>

You see, Fiondo doesn't like to allow _anyone_ to be late for their duties.

"It was my fault."

Also, Fánamaril and I are similar in mind-work. Both of us like to take the blame.

"It doesn't matter. The fact is you both are _late._"

She and I exchanged glances; then we turned back to Fiondo and silently nodded without protest. Then Fiondo dealt out the punishment. Other servants walked past us in the hallway, shaking their heads in pity.

"Since both of you decided to be late, I am going to make you work on tomorrow's laundry." How in the world do you work on laundry that hasn't been used? "There are going to be more guests arriving in tomorrow, and it is as much of a good time as any to get started. I will send someone to help you...later." Then she suddenly had a very distinct look of amusement in her eyes. "Because I am not your master, I have no obligation to give you a painful penance."

I thought that this was my time to intervene then. "Guests that are arriving in tomorrow? How do you know this?"

Fiondo's mouth curled into a smile. "I am an all-knower, Silmalir. I know things."

Right.

* * *

><p>It turns out that doing laundry is not extremely boring. In fact, when Fánamaril and I do it, it is anything <em>but<em> boring. First, we had to wash the sheets, which I turned into a splashing fight with the water. My sleeves were soaking wet, and so was the rest of me. I also upturned the entire bucket upon Fána, and then we both had to wait to dry before refilling the buckets...to focus on our duty this time.

Then, we had to hang up the sheets on clothing lines, and that is when Fána exacted revenge. I thrashed around like an idiot under the covers. Afterwards, we carried the baskets up to the laundry room (west wing, second floor), where we dropped it off. All the while, we were comparing each other's dirty mental capacity.

"A banana." That is one of the oldest ones in the book.

"A scabbard," Fánamaril said triumphantly.

I raised an eyebrow. "How is a scabbard, in _any_way, dirty?" How is a scabbard supposed to be dirty in some far stretch of imagination?

She smirked pompously. "Oh, you'll find out one day. You'll definitely find out one day."

"I'm not sure I want to find out..."

Just then, we walked past a little Elf-boy, sitting in the corner of one of the beams attached to the balustrade. He looked down at his feet sullenly, as if trying to stare them into disappearing. His eyes were a faint blue, and his hair was as dark as the palace shadow. He had his knees tucked under his chin, with his small arms holding himself pitifully. I stopped moving to stare at him, and Fánamaril, who realised that I had stopped walking, stopped walking as well.

If I had not been so logical, I would have left with an immense feeling of guilt at leaving a child alone. No child, no matter how tall, how short, how imposing, or how royal-blooded (that doesn't make sense, does it?), should ever be left by him or herself, especially in a castle this large. We all know that I am only logical at the worst times.

Gathering my bearings, I went over to the little boy, and upon closer inspection saw that he mightily resembled Makalaurë. I wouldn't dare hope...but perhaps this boy was Morifinwë, the fourth son of Prince Fëanáro, and the youngest—for now.

I hesitantly put a hand on his shoulder, and he looked up with an alarmed expression in his sparkling eyes. Then it faded when he realised that I was not one that he would recognise, and disappointment remained. He looked down again when I removed my hand.

"Are you alright?" I asked.

At the exact same time, he muttered, "Go away."

I surprised myself by saying very firmly, "No."

It was almost like dealing with a difficult person—no, it was _exactly_ like dealing with a difficult person.

"Why not?" he countered.

So it was a test to see who was the master of being blunt!

"Because I want to know why you look so forlorn," I replied.

He blinked, as if amazed by how blunt I was. "Why should I tell you?"

This child... "If you do not tell me, I will sit here all day until you do."

His eyes held a surprising amount of alarm. Immediately he turned to stare at me, unsure whether or not this was a threat or a bluff. I started to pray to Eru that he would not call my bluff. _Don't call the bluff, don't call the bluff, don't call the bluff, don't call the bluff..._

Thankfully, he didn't call the bluff.

* * *

><p>"Onward!"<p>

I groaned inwardly; nevertheless, I sprinted forward, hoping dearly that I would not drop Caranthir. He told me the real reason why he sat in the corner: today was boring, and everyone was too busy to play with him.

Fánamaril smiled as I turned the corner of the first building to meet her gaze in the courtyard. I stuck my tongue out at her and ran faster, intending to scare her out of the way. Caranthir's eyes widened as he saw my intention.

"Wait! No! Don't! There are crates and boxes! You cannot jump over them!" he shouted into one of my pointed ears.

"Too late, Caranthir!" I laughed.

In one jump off of a box, I soared over three small crates, stacked on top of each other. Meanwhile, Caranthir clung to my back tightly, holding a fistful of hair in his hand. I wasn't a _horse_.

"Silmalir!" Fánamaril gasped.

"Hold on tightly!" I suggested to Caranthir.

"I already am!"

The ground was nearing my feet. Suddenly, I realised how _stupid_ I was. "Manwë's bird!" I swore, renewing my hold on Caranthir.

"Stop swearing, Silmalir!" Fánamaril shouted at me. "Don't swear in front of a _child!_"

"By the black of Ungoliant's feet!" Caranthir added, apparently not hearing what Fánamaril said.

I think he caught a glimpse of what awaited us. Then, the ground abruptly slammed into the soles of my feet, and I almost fell forward. _Almost_. I felt Caranthir taken from my back and arms that held me from hitting the grass. Wondering what happened, I twisted to try and see who caught me.

"By the black of Ungoliant's feet," I muttered after recognising that this was, in fact, someone that I dreaded seeing.

* * *

><p>Makalaurë's eyes widened at the swear. "Are you alright?"<p>

"Shouldn't you be, I don't know, checking up on Caranthir?" I asked him, steering the conversation far away from myself. I still hadn't gotten over the 'Incident.'

As sudden as it was, I was dropped. I hit the floor with an oof, and Fána, who was several yards off, recovered from her shock and came over to check on me. She was laughing at the expression on my face that I had been dropped. Very rudely dropped. Onto the earth. With trouble, I pulled my arm out from under me and got off of the grass, brushing off bits of grass and spitting out one stalk.

Maybe I deserved that in the long run.

"I'm sorry," apologised Makalaurë. He gestured to Caranthir, who was hanging onto his back now.

Nelyafinwë stood aside with Turcafinwë, a bemused expression on his face. "Are you Silmalir?"

I nodded while pulling grass out of my hair as well.

Caranthir hopped off of Makalaurë's back. "Let's do it again!"

"Um... Well... I would be glad to do it again, but I'm not sure your brothers would allow it, for the sake of your safety—"

"—and yours," Makalaurë added.

"Right. So...you may want to ask your brothers first."

He turned around to Nelyafinwë. Then he adopted an expression that not even Lady Alquasar and her heart of acid could resist. His eyes were wide open and innocent, and his mouth was pressed into a firm frown. "Please, Maitimo?"

Nelyafinwë frowned as well, and he stared into Caranthir's eyes. For a few moments, we all stood in a stilled silence, and those passing through gave us one look before deciding that it wasn't worth their time. Still, the eldest son of the Prince continued to hold up the staring contest with his little brother. We all waited for one of them to give in.

Then Fánamaril sighed. "Just let him do it, my lord. Otherwise, he will revert to sitting in the corner of some random hall, and another random person will come along and do the exact same thing."

I blinked at this sudden support.

Nelyafinwë sighed. "Very well, Caranthir. Very well. But, on one condition."

"Yes_, toron?"_

_"_Allow Lady Silmalir a break," he said, smiling. "We are _torni_, are we not? Kano, Turco, and I will do it instead."

Caranthir's face lit up considerably.

Turcafinwë scowled at his brother. "Don't call me that, _Nelyo_. It sounds like the word 'turkey' mispronounced by a toddler."

* * *

><p>After Caranthir decided that he had enough of 'flying,' as he liked to call it, we relocated to the inside of the palace. (Now that we were all on friendly terms, Fánamaril and I used the fours' mother-names.) Somehow, I managed to enter the grand doors (we walked in a line of two-Elves-width) with Makalaurë by my side. Just because I could carry on a civil conversation with him did not mean I could get over the fact that I had done the unspeakable.<p>

Fánamaril saw this, and I watched as she whispered into Tyelkormo's pointed ear. He raised an eyebrow at whatever she said but nodded, and then he turned back to us with a smile.

"Let's go to the kitchens."

I wasn't going to protest—Fána and I had things to do, and we had to go back to Fiondo. Though Fánamaril had already reported to her while I was running around with Caranthir on my back, Fiondo would be worrying about our whereabouts.

Makalaurë narrowed his eyes in suspicion but said nothing. He only nodded his reluctant agreement, walking along slowly as I skipped around cheerfully. Despite my outward mask, I was panicking and hyperventilating on the inside. Many questions ran through my mind and worried me to a certain extent.

_'What if this turns out like last time?' 'What if I do something stupid?' 'What if I end up tripping over him?' 'Wait, that is stupid.'_

I was so caught up in my own little Eä that I didn't even realise that they were leading us in the wrong direction.

"We're here!" Tyelkormo announced, doing one quick spin for the sake of it. Fánamaril had a smile on her face, and Makalaurë simply stood there as I came back to my senses.

"Wait, what? This doesn't look like the kitchen..." I said very slowly, registering it just as slowly. "Hey, where did Caranthir and Maitimo go?"

At least Fána and Tyekormo had the decency to look sheepish, because in one instance, I was standing outside the door. In the next, I was shoved into a small storage closet with a torch on each wall. I was about to protest, but it was cut short by having air taken from me to speak. Needless to say, I went: _Oof! _Then, the door was slammed, and I heard a lock.

My eyes remained on the door that was slightly covered by a dark head. There was a lock on the inside as well, but I could only assume that since not even the Valar could lock a door outside from the inside, there were separate locks. I finally understood what was happening.

"FÁNAMARIL!"

* * *

><p>Next chapter: awkwardness between Silmalir and Makalaurë resolved (or is it?) and family fluff!<p>

Meaning of Quenya WORDS:

toron : brother

torni : brothers

Courtesy of the Quenya that I learned.

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	7. Run, Maitimo, Run!

**I don't own anything that Professor Tolkien created, or the theme of Cinderella.**

* * *

><p>"FÁNAMARIL!"<p>

Yes, it actually happened.

"LET US OUT!" I shouted, quickly moving to the door as soon as Makalaurë got off of me. "I SWEAR UPON MY GRAVESTONE THAT IF YOU DO NOT OPEN THIS DOOR IN FIVE SECONDS, I WILL—"

I was cut off by a hand not so discreetly clapped over my mouth as I was pulled back. Curse it, Makalaurë, curse it!

"Never, Silmalir!" I heard from outside. "Not until you resolve what ever problem you've got with Makalaurë!" Lucky for me, I couldn't see Makalaurë's facial expression. Athough, I think he was lucky that he couldn't see my face either. It was beyond a faint blush—more like shade of crimson.

"And the same with you, Kano!" Tyelkormo added for good measure.

Now Makalaurë was indefinitely lucky that he couldn't see my face. I heard him choke in surprise on any swift retort that he was going to utter. I tried to turn around at this point, to see if his current shade of skin was in correspondence with my current shade of skin. I shall spare you the details of me trying to contain my shock at seeing that his face was even redder than mine.

He let go of me soundlessly and covered his face with both of his hands. His long, slender, graceful, elegant hands. I could spend an hour just describing them. But I shouldn't. Instead, I should describe the fact that the torches looked dimmer than they did a few minutes ago, which caused a sense of dread in my stomach.

"FÁNAMARIL! TYELKORMO! LET US OUT!" I shouted again, distracting myself.

"Keep dreaming, Silmalir!" Tyelkormo.

"I WILL SKIN YOU ALIVE AND WEAR YOU INTO A FOOL, TURCAFINWË!"

"Is Makalaurë still alive in there?" Fánamaril asked.

I waited for several minutes to reply.

"Yes, he is," I supplied helpfully. For a moment, I would bet Lady Alquasar's wine that they thought I had calmed down. Then my voice rose drastically. "BUT YOU WON'T BE WHEN I GET OUT OF THIS STUPID CLOSET!" Then I started to pound on the door, to emphasize my point.

I stopped when I heard their footsteps, slowly fading away. Allowing myself one moment of self-pity, I slammed my palm onto the smooth wooden door and removed it carefully to examine the possibility that I left an indent in it.

"It's very sturdy—you are wasting your time trying to make an imprint."

Heaving a sigh and hiding it skillfully, I turned to Makalaurë, who recovered from his momentary distress and embarrassment, and sat back on my haunches, biting my lip. He stared back at me with an expression that revealed nothing. Then he spoke:

"They are not going to let us out unless we resolve whatever they have deemed we resolve," he said, basically summarizing Fána and Tyelkormo's meaningless intention.

"Then they were going to be waiting a long time, because we have nothing to resolve," I argued. It was pointless.

Makalaurë looked like he wanted desperately to have a window to look out of—just to be dramatic, like in those cheesy plays that are performed at the theatre. He settled for staring at one of the torches.

Cue...long moment of silence.

"Actually," he suddenly said, turning to face me again. "We do have something that we need to resolve."

"What?"

That was the most _undignified_ whimper I had _ever_ made. Oh-ho, those two were going to **pay**.

* * *

><p>About a long two hours later, Makalaurë and I were let out of the storage room. Fánamaril seemed like she was itching to ask me what happened. I simply nodded to Makalaurë and walked in the opposite direction. We walked (Fánamaril followed without question) all the way back to our chambers after she dutifully told me that Fiondo relieved us both of our duties, since we, after all, accidently did all of the laundry for tomorrow.<p>

Opening the door to room, I strode in and plopped myself into one of the chairs, eyeing a porcelain teapot appreciatively. So they did have tea prepared. I picked up the teapot and poured myself a cup. Fánamaril closed the door behind her and sat down in the chair slightly parallel to the chair I occupied.

"Please don't be mad?"

I turned to face her and raised an eyebrow as I drank from the teacup. "Be mad at what?"

Fána sighed. "At locking you in the closet with your least favorite person in the world." Her expression was slightly guilty and downcast, and I could only imagine Tyelkormo's face when Makalaurë found him.

I smiled, and Fánamaril had more of an apprehensive feel set about her features. "I'm not mad."

Relief. Then curiosity. "Why not?"

"Because...Makalaurë isn't my least favorite person in the world."

Doubt. "You aren't going to deliver a punch-line, are you?"

"No."

More relief. "Okay..." Fána said at last. Then her eyes lit with more curiosity. I didn't think that was possible. "What happened in the storeroom?"

I should have known. She wanted to know about it. "Well, we talked." Nod. "Continued to talk." Nod. "Then we started to talk about you and Tyelkormo." Nod—sudden change in expression.

"What?" she squeaked. The tips of her ears turned red, and she dropped her gaze to her lap.

I smiled even more sweetly. "Then Makalaurë figured that you and Tyelkormo wouldn't let us out until we stopped being awkward with each other." Frightened nod. "So we decided to stop being awkward with each other."

There was a quiet moment where I waited for her to process all of this. Then, she slowly looked up from her hands and said, "That's it?"

I suddenly felt very indignant. "What else should there be?"

"He didn't sing to you?"

_What?_ "Why would he sing to me in a closet?"

"Tyelkormo said he would."

"Tyelkormo says a lot of things, Fánamaril."

She looked like she was about to object. Then she stopped looking like she was about to object and sighed as if trying to end a torment as soon as possible. "Maybe. But Tyelkormo was sure that Makalaurë would sing to you. He looked so sure of himself..."

"That's because he always looks so sure of himself." I suddenly found a pillow being aimed at my head. I ducked before anything bad could happen. "The truth hurts."

Fánamaril seemed so pitiful, her shoulders slumped in defeat. "But he was so sure..."

I sighed and threw my hands up in the air. "You can tell him that Makalaurë sang to me, for all I care! But by the Valar, why are you so diminished because of his far-fetched idea being unable to become reality?"

"Because," she muttered.

"Because?"

"Just because!" She got up out of the chair and went to her bed.

Then, another pillow found its way flying towards me. It hit me full in the face this time, and after it was finished attacking my face, the pillow dropped into my lap. I stared at Fánamaril, not believing that _Fána_, the _Fána_, actually threw a pillow at me. She was so gentle in nature, although she got carried away with her ideas at times.

Luckily, the teacup and teapot and tea-set stayed out of our pillow fight.

"TAKE THAT, ORC-SPAWN!" she shouted, bowling me over with one whack to the shoulder.

"OH, YEAH, BALROG BREATH?" I retorted, swiping her legs out from under her.

And then...

"KEEP IT DOWN, CHILDREN OF THE DEVIL! PEOPLE ARE TRYING TO REST AFTER A LONG DAY IN COURT!" shouted a voice from underneath.

I grudgingly stopped clonking Fánamaril on the head with my dead pillow, getting up from the bed. She aimed her pillow at me one last time, and it bounced off my back. I glared at her before going over to the wardrobe.

"What are you doing?" she inquired after being unable to decipher my actions.

"I, for one, am going to take a bath. If you didn't know, I ran around a courtyard with a child on my back, washed clothes, and was locked in a closet. I think that my patience deserves a moment's rest."

She blinked. "If you drown yourself, I'm not going to save you."

"I wouldn't expect you to."

* * *

><p>Nerdanel looked up from her sculpture as she heard giggling from the path of the garden. Thinking nothing of it, she returned to her work and continued to chip away at marble. Silence dominated again. Then there was more giggling. She tilted her head towards the window, glaring outside as if that would cease any other sound that dared break through.<p>

"Ammë!" she heard Caranthir say.

She sighed longsufferingly. "Come on in!"

Nerdanel should have never decided to reside on the first floor. Especially now that she was pregnant, it didn't help that she could not get fitful sleep because of all the commotion outside. She _should have_ taken up the offer to sleep in Fëanáro's room; he barely occupied it anyway, what with working in the forge, eating in the forge, sleeping in the forge—basically **living** _in the forge._

Her eyes were greeted with the sight of Maitimo climbing into the window with Caranthir clinging to his front.

"What trouble have you gotten into this time?" Nerdanel asked, thinking that she might as well get it over with right now.

"They locked me in a closet," interjected another voice. Makalaurë's.

She spun on the spot, putting a hand to her forehead. "Make some noise when you enter, Makalaurë!" She spotted Tyelkormo behind him. "You too, Tyelkormo." At least Tyelkormo had the decency to look slightly abashed!

Then she caught what Makalaurë said.

"What? They locked you in a closet?"

"To be fair, it wasn't a closet," Maitimo put in ever so justly.

"No sarcasm, Russandol," Nerdanel admonished without even turning to face him. "Now, tell me why you locked your brother into a...a...whatever it was. And don't leave anything out."

Just in case, she sat down in a comfortable armchair, with the assistance of Caranthir. Being pregnant had its downsides. In fact, it had more cons than it had pros. The only reason why she bothered to tolerate such annoying circumstances..._five_ times...was because it brought life into the world. But on the other hand, it felt like her lover was conspiring against her.

"Well, once upon a time," Tyelkormo began.

"Tyelkormo."

"Okay, okay. It was because of that girl called Silmalir."

This caught Nerdanel's interest. "Girl?"

"No, I'm pretty sure it was a boy, Turco," Makalaurë said sarcastically.

"No sarcasm!" she complained.

Just at the same time, Tyelkormo glared at Makalaurë. "I told you, about a _million times_, not to call me that!"

"What are you going to do about it then?"

"Oh, you just watch as I take your spine out of your anatomy and beat you over the head with it!"

"Yeah? You can listen as I gouge your eyeballs out with a cucumber!"

Nerdanel felt faint. "Boys! Behave."

Makalaurë and Tyelkormo fell silent, one scowling at the other, and the other doing the exact same thing vice versa. She obviously wasn't going to get answers now that there was a slight altercation. Caranthir, however, remained the savior of the day.

"Makalaurë is lovestruck," he supplied helpfully.

"What?" said Elf cried. "I'm not." He turned to Maitimo. "Tell Caranthir that I am not, beyond any far stretch of thought even incapable by Ilúvatar himself, lovestruck."

"You held her hands yesterday. Today, you held her in your arms." All evidence was obviously against Nerdanel's second son. Makalaurë's face progressively turned redder and redder. "So Tyelkormo and his new lady-friend locked you both in a closet."

Tyelkormo nodded, grinning for a moment. Then: "Wait, no!"

Nerdanel felt that her sons were growing up too fast. She tilted her head in Maitimo's direction. "Does Russandol have some new fling that I am unaware of?"

"Not that I know of," Makalaurë sighed, relieved that the conversation was coming to an end.

Caranthir smiply shrugged. "Makalaurë wouldn't know anyway; he is too busy thinking about Silmalir." If Caranthir had been older, Makalaurë would have given him an eye blacker than his hair.

At that moment, Fëanáro entered the room. "Makalaurë is too busy thinking about who?"

"No one!" Makalaurë said abruptly, clamping a hand over Caranthir's mouth. "Not one Elf in this palace, not one Elf in Tirion, not one Elf in the entirety of Aman!"

"Of course, I bet Tyelkormo's thinking about his new lady-friend," Maitimo mused to himself. All eyes turned to look at him, and the Elf mentioned had his mouth hanging open in shock. Maitimo realised what he just did then. "Oh, did I say that out loud?"

"Nel-ya-fin-wë," Tyelkormo said slowly. "Your body is soon going to be drenched in the same color as your hair."

Maitimo backed away to the window nervously. "I hope your means of achieving that is not violent."

"Oh, it won't be violent. It'll be _very_ violent."

"Is that supposed to make it better?"

"I have the power to make you writhe at my feet."

"I have the power to escape you before you can."

Tyelkormo growled like a lion ready to pounce on its prey. "Wanna bet?"

Maitimo was out the window before anyone else could swear in the name of Calacirya.

"YOU BETTER RUN, MAITIMO!" shouted Tyelkormo.

Fëanáro stared at the dust that Tyelkormo and Maitimo left behind. Then he said, "Do I want to know?"

Before Nerdanel could respond, Makalaurë already shook his head. "No, Atar, you do _not_ want to know. I shall be in my room composing the lament of Maitimo, if anyone wishes to hear it later."

The father of these raucous boys sighed and crossed the room to plant a kiss on his wife's nose.

"They're growing up so quickly."

* * *

><p><strong>Family fluff? Or very violent family fluff? So basically, suffocating fluff? Tell me what you think!<strong>

Russandol: copper top - Maedhros's nickname that close friends called him.

Note: Nerdanel was a sculptor, a very, very skilled sculptor, who made sculptures so life-like that one would believe they drew breath. In this fiction piece, I have her use marble so she can hone her skills.

**Repeat: Tell me what you think about that family fluff.  
>Do you hate it?<br>Do you love it?  
>Do you wish for more?<strong>


	8. I Promise to Recite That Promise

**This chapter may be shorter in description than the others. This builds up Makalaurë and Silmalir's relationship though, so I'll have to appreciate it in retrospect. Anyways, I was just a little too drained to write proper descriptions, so I settled for your imagination.**

**Enjoy...**

* * *

><p>I wasn't sure about how to handle situations like this. In all of my three hundred and seven years, I had never encountered...<em>this<em>. How was I supposed to deal with it? Why was I the idiot that decided to get up early in the morning to go to the kitchens?

For the life of me, how was I supposed to wake a child that slept in a large black pot?

"Silmalir?" Nelyafinwë's voice.

"Shh!" I gestured to the dark-haired child. "He's sleeping."

Immediately, Maitimo's face softened. "That is Findekáno. He is our Uncle's son."

"Prince Nolofinwë?"

He nodded. "Uncle Nolofinwë will be wondering where he was. I shall wake him."

So there you have it. I stood aside while Maitimo slowly roused Findekáno from his sleep and coaxed him out of the pot that we had no knowledge of _how_ he got into it. For a moment, the child's eyes fluttered open and closed until they fixed onto the form of the one who held him in his arms.

"Mai...ti...mo?"

"Findekáno," he responded affectionately.

Findekáno closed his eyes. "M'sleepy..." Then he opened his eyes and made a face. "N'...sore."

I couldn't help but join in at this point. "You slept in a pot." He craned his head to find the source of my voice, and his gaze hit spot-on. Of course, it wasn't without my help. "I am over here, little one."

Immediately, his eyes sought mine, and he physically demanded to be put down. Then he stumbled drowsily over to where I stood, looking up at me suspiciously with his eyes narrowed. I could tell that he tried his best to look intimidating, for his skinny arms were crossed over his chest. Then, slowly, he raised one eyebrow (Note: this is where Elrond gets his awesome eyebrow skills).

"Who are you?"

I felt bad about being so tall. Then I could only imagine how Maitimo felt—he was easily the tallest Elf in Tirion. To ease the guilt, I bent down and smiled at him. He backed away a few steps.

Over his shoulder, I saw Maitimo grinning. I feigned a hurt look at little Findekáno's rejection, and Findekáno seemed to battle with himself before stepping forward and asking the question again.

"Who are you?" he repeated.

"Silmalir. Who are you?"

"Findekáno, son of Nolofinwë, son of Queen Indis and King Finwë, who is one of the First Elves to be awakened."

My smile grew even wider. "So...does that mean that I run around, saying 'Findekáno, son of Nolofinwë, son of Queen Indis and King Finwë, who is one of the First Elves to awake?"

Findekáno bit his lip for a moment, contemplating. Then he said, "To be _awakened_." It was nice to know that we had similar senses of humor.

"Come, Findekáno," said Maitimo. "Let us get you back to Uncle before he skewers every son of Fëanáro in his presence."

"Atar wouldn't do that. He would formally roast you all in a pot and feed you to the roots of Lady Yavanna's plants," he said with candour. "Then he would laugh in the face of—" He was cut off by Maitimo saying goodbye to me in the most unusual way.

"Children have such odd imaginations," he interrupted, laughing.

"Of course, Maitimo isn't an influence _at all_," Nolofinwë's son added.

* * *

><p><em>Slam! <em>

"Ow! Varda's stars!"

"Serves you right, Silmalir, for falling asleep with your elbow propped up against a table," said a voice that I distinguished as Fánamaril's. (Does anyone else see the irony?) "You should remember the promise that we made each other. And you should remember what we promised if we forgot the promise."

I groaned. "I promise to recite the promise."

"Now recite it."

"I take it upon myself to swipe anyone's elbow from out under them if they are sleeping with their elbow propped up against a table, no matter how much peaceful they look sleeping, no matter if it was King Finwë or Lord Manwë himself," I droned. "Now, can I go back to sleep?"

"No Elf is as lazy as you are."

I allowed my head to fall into my waiting hands. "Where am I?"

"Banquet hall."

My head snapped up as I distinctly remembered walking from the kitchen into some random room... And then I found a nice table to sleep on... "Oh. So this was the room..." I stopped short with a yawn.

"Anyways," Fánamaril continued. "Lady Alquasar has called us to her room. So you might want to come with me before she screams our names to the high heavens. I, for one, have no intention of having my name ringing in the halls of the palace."

I grinned. "Actually, that doesn't sound like a bad idea."

"Just come with me, orc-spawn."

"Whatever you say, Balrog-breath."

* * *

><p>For some far-fetched reason, Lady Alquasar was irritated by our spotless behaviours. Apparently, she found fault in speaking, talking, and looking at the sons of Prince Fëanáro and demanded that we stop at once and call them by their appropriate names. She said that she 'would not stand for such behaviour from her servants, shamelessly flirting with the blood and flesh of the royal family.'<p>

Please. Someone kill me. I thought I would be free of her once we came to the palace of Tirion, but I was evidently wrong. And shamelessly flirting? That would be her daughters' job.

"Not even if they speak to us?" Fánamaril questioned tentatively.

"Respond politely and do not linger," Lady Alquasar responded evenly. "Now accompany me to the gardens—I wish for some fresh air." Ha. Fresh air, the point of my ear. She wished for someone to admire her beauty that was greatly enhanced by two unfortunate servants.

"Yes, my lady," we chorused monotonously.

As we walked out to the gardens, I couldn't help but internally wince at how awkwardly tall Fána and I looked next to the slightly shorter, fragile Lady Alquasar. We looked like bodyguards instead of lowly servants, really. Along the way, her two daughters joined us, and we might as well not have existed. Way to show that Fána and I were still nothing but servants.

Ringalannë passed by with Riellondë at some point, and they raised eyebrows at the backs of Lady Alquasar and her daughter. I shrugged, and Ringalannë looked on with slight pity. Fánamaril continued to stare on, ignoring all of the eyes that targeted us. Which wasn't such a large number, mind you.

"The shade is perfect right here," mused Lady Alquasar aloud. "Silmalir, go get three chairs for my daughters and I."

"And if I bump into the sons of Prince Fëanáro?" I said, using all of my willpower to keep the sarcasm from my voice.

"Avoid them."

"Yes, my lady."

I walked away, and for the first time here, I almost wanted to go back to the house that I used to reside in, happily with my mother and father. My step-mother hates me. I know it.

* * *

><p>One by one, I dragged a chair from the place where they stored chairs. Why they have a room to store chairs I will never know, and it didn't interest me either. On the first chair, I narrowly bumped into little Caranthir, who was skipping down the hallway merrily with a bowl of red dye in his hands. On the second chair, I heard a strangled cry from the direction of the royal wing, where the royal family resided. I distinctly wondered what happened, and if it could have possibly involved Caranthir's red dye.<p>

At last, I went back to the storage room and took _one more chair_ from the room and left, lugging it behind me. No one bothered to pay attention to me, and for that I was thankful. Of course, I saw Tyelkormo run down the hallway then, and a red Elf followed past, yelling profane statements and threats. My ears caught several words that I would not dare utter.

"YOU NASTY LITTLE TROLL! I'LL DROWN YOU IN A BIRD SHOWER AND THROW YOU OFF OF THE MINDON!"

"It'll take more than a bird shower to get that dye off, Russandol!" Tyelkormo retorted.

"TYELKORMO!" I assumed that Maitimo had been pranked by Tyelkormo, and Caranthir had a hand in it. "VALAR, WHERE DID I GO _WRONG_ WITH YOU?"

"I BELIEVE THAT IT IS YOU THAT WAS WRONG, BROTHER!"

"GET BACK HERE!" I was surprised that Lady Nerdanel actually survived with sons like these. If I had been her and heavily pregnant, I would have ripped my hair out and smashed any bust that might have slept in the room or hallway. "GET BACK HERE SO I CAN KILL YOU!"

"NOT IN A MILLION YEARS!"

Shaking my head in exasperation, I continued the tedious task (alliteration!) of carrying a chair to Lohtilin's waiting rear, all the while chanting in my head 'I hate them, I hate them, I hate them' like a crazed mantra. Until I was so rudely interrupted by the chair being taken out of my hands.

"Need some help there?" Makalaurë. I almost whimpered, what with my crap luck and all.

I turned around and saw _him_ again, leaning with his elbow propped up against the back of the chair. Although I would have found a million things to say to him, like retorts, sarcastic retorts, very sarcastic retorts (and several other remarks for good measure), I was under restriction, and that made it a thousand times harder. The one thing that I couldn't believe was that this was the very same Elf that I got locked in a closet with yesterday, and now I couldn't speak to him.

Or, at least, hold a decent conversation that didn't just consist of five words: 'I can't talk to you.'

Putting on the most polite smile I could muster, I gathered my bearings and shook my head. "I'm...testing my strength. So, if you would excuse me, I must get going. Fánamaril will be waiting for me." Well, I didn't lie altogether!

Makalaurë seemed to be about to ask to accompany me, and I knew that my steel wall would collapse into sand. I just knew that I wouldn't be able to say no to him, and I felt so weak at it. But he then decided against it and smiled at me.

"I'll leave you to your devices then."

I bowed (I. Do. Not. Curtsy.) and said goodbye, painfully formal. Then I started to pull the chair towards the gardens. But it felt like I was pulling myself away from my heart.

Oh, Valar, that sounded cheesy.

* * *

><p><strong>Review for an unusual show of cheesiness! So cli...clic...something like that. But it's still cheesy. <strong>

By the way, this totally spoils it, but the red dye was a reference to the previous chapter, if you didn't get it.

No Notes this time... YAY!

Oh, and it is to be continued with... (cue dramatic suspense) ...the thoughts of Makalaurë on all of this, and a little bit more family fluff with more and more of the Noldorin royal family revealed! The next chapter probably won't even have Silmalir's perspective in it—for once, the world will be without her sharp sense of humor—and will focus around King Finwë's family. After all...we must shed light on the situation!

And though this is completely irrelevant, I got a watch today! But I don't know which wrist to wear it on. People say that I should wear it on my left, but it feels better on my right. So I'm confused on that.

**I will send Makalaurë's harp minions after you.  
>(It took me a month to find the string that he needed after he lost it.)<br>If you don't press it, expect _that_.**


	9. Tyelkormo's Words of Wisdom

**Note: **This is in the perspective of Makalaurë, and Makalaurë only.

**And...I have some bad news that I'll tell you...after you read this, of course.**

* * *

><p>I don't know what I did wrong.<p>

I honestly _don't _know _what_ I did _wro_ng.

Oops, typo—I honestly _don't know what_ I did _wrong_. There. If you're going to write a journal of drama in your naturally long life that Eru blessed you with, then you could as least do it correctly.

Sorry, I'm a perfectionist. Anyway (note that the repeat is intentional)...

* * *

><p>I don't know what I did wrong. One moment, we're locked in a closet, complaining about Tyelkormo and Fánamaril, and now Silmalir cringes at my company. You should have seen her facial expression when she saw me: shock, anguish, regret, and some other emotion that I couldn't make out. At first, I was <em>going<em> to ask if she saw Tyelkormo's face, but she looked quite defeated.

So I let her be and watched as she walked away. Or, erm, staggered away, pulling a large chair behind her.

Shouts of Tyelkormo and Maitimo echoed down the hall, and I reluctantly followed after deciding against following Silmalir.

"Makalaurë!" Mother's head popped out from around the corner, where her room was. "Keep your brothers from killing each other!"

"That's exactly what I'm doing!" I replied, building up my pace.

All I remember after that particular conversation was running past Uncle Arafinwë's door and him poking his head out to see what was the commotion. I was, luckily, catching up after Maitimo and Tyelkormo, but they had unfair advantages. One—Maitimo was tall. Very, very tall. Two—Tyelkormo was a hunter, with the agility and speed of one.

I was the one that sat in the corner of celebrations, humming while nonchalantly watching as Father, U & U (Uncle Nolofinwë and Uncle Arafinwë), and Grandfather got extremely drunk. During which Maitimo and Tyelkormo tried their best to avoid any noble Elf-maidens. Usually, Caranthir would just sit next to me and demand certain songs, but most of them I knew the words to.

Basically, I was the one grown-up son of Prince Fëanáro that wasn't built of a ton of lean muscle and a sewing needle. No. I was built of a pound of muscle and the ability to play Elves like a harp. And play the very same harp. I mean—Atar wasn't exactly muscular, and his chest wasn't particularly broad like Uncle Nolofinwë's. But that look suited Uncle Nolofinwë, for he was tall too.

Maitimo undoubtedly got his tall genes from Grandfather, mixed in with Grandmother's. To be fair, I was only a little shorter than Maitimo (the same height as Atar), but it didn't seem like that right now.

"By the Valar, Maitimo! Tyelkormo! Slow down!" I gasped out, stopping my run and panting.

Valar, bards weren't made to run.

* * *

><p>I should have expected Atar to scold us for running around like elflings and disturbing the others. Unfortunately, I did not expect him to order us to clean the horse stables. With a spoon. With Atar, this was one of the lesser punishments that even Mother could think up in her sleep, so I wasn't too surprised about it. Caranthir, on the other hand, as punishment, was supposed to supervise us.<p>

Knowing Caranthir, he would find it extremely boring, and that would be punishment enough.

To think this would have all been avoided if I had followed Silmalir to wherever she was going!

"This smells horribly," Tyelkormo gasped out, throwing into a sack a pile of very fragrant...well...it was very fragrant.

"It's the fresh scent of nature," Maitimo said cheerfully, flinging some more...horse dung into his own sack.

"More like fresh scent of Elf-death," I muttered, thankful that I, unlike my brothers, had patience and worked very quickly. "I think I am completely done. So if you wish to find me, I will be drowning the stink out of my scent in the bath."

"Public?" Caranthir piped up. I nodded.

Tyelkormo straightened himself and hauled the sack to a standing position. "I am finished as well." Then he eyed his spoon (that no longer resembled anything silver), buried deep in the ground. "The kitchen is never getting those things back."

Maitimo was obviously done too. "I think that, my dear brother, is exactly why they gave us defected utensils." He held up his said utensil, and it was obvious that the thing was slightly bent at the neck. "They obviously didn't expect to have these returned."

Caranthir jumped off of the gate, which he was balanced on precariously, the little show-off, and immediately tugged at my sleeve. "Well then, what are we waiting for? Let's go to the baths!" He wrinkled his nose. "You three stink."

For that, I gave him a big hug, to which he wriggled and squeaked in surprise. Then he protested that I was giving off 'my stink' to him and pushed me away. I feigned hurt and tried to look dejected, at least, when he hesitantly covered his nose with one hand and patted my shoulder with the other. Maitimo shook his head, and Tyelkormo immediately swooped Caranthir up into a hug.

You see, Tyelkormo was the dirtiest of us all. He possessed enough bad luck to step right into a pile of fragrance after coming into the horse stable. Then, his resolve not to swear was thrown to the wind when he slipped on that very same pile and landed in that pile. On his front. By now, you can probably note that Tyelkormo has luck that not even the unluckiest Elf in Aman could compare to. Heck, not even Beleriand.

"Help!" Caranthir gasped out, finally reaching the end of his oxygen supply. "I'm dying!"

"Put him down before you suffocate him with horse dung, Turco," Maitimo ordered absentmindedly, not realising what he just did.

"I still have the power to make you writhe at my feet," Tyelkormo warned him, giving our brother a dark look. "I'll give you a black eye."

Maitimo snorted. "You also have the power to punch like a girl. The only way you'll give me a black eye is if you paint it, and I doubt you even have enough of the ability to make it to my chin."

In the light of all that was fair, Maitimo had it coming to him.

Tyelkormo swung the sack filled with horse-dung up in one heave and started to hit Maitimo with it. "Take that, you piece of festering lion s—"

"Watch your tongue, Tyelkormo!" Maitimo reminded him, defending himself with the dirty spoon.

"I was going to say stuff!" Tyelkormo protested, swinging the sack this way and that.

I nearly gagged when I took a whiff of all of it at once. Feeling slightly...not so good, I led Caranthir away from our two idiot brothers, placing my heavy sack onto one of the wagons filled with hay. Only the Valar knew what they did with that stuff.

"What about Tyelkormo and Maitimo?" Caranthir protested.

Of course, it was up to me to come up with an excuse. Caranthir, when he grew up, would understand eventually that one had to leave at such times if they did not wish to get killed by odor.

But that didn't make it any easier. "Well, they just want to get dirtier. Like how you love to play in the dirt."

"But that's different."

I didn't see any difference. "Maybe it is, but Maitimo and Tyelkormo are..." How to describe it? Lunatics? Stupid? Idiotic? Immature? "...very childish. They are secretly plotting to...over-stench us with their...smell..."

"Then we need to be stinkier than them, right?" Caranthir thought aloud after several moments.

_Wrong!_ "No, that means we have to smell very nice. You don't want Ammë to be mad at us, do you?" I tried to reason.

Then, a particularly strong aroma wafted over, and I felt my stomach churning. I had a feeling who it was, but it was too late to have those thoughts, because I was suddenly knocked over. And the smell emanated from the _thing_ on my back.

"Get off, Tyelkormo!"

"I think I knocked out Maitimo," said the empyreumatic-smelling Elf. "He's laying back there."

"Get off before I push you into a creek, Tyelkormo. Just drag him back, but don't prevent me from cleansing myself from this fetid miasma."

"Ever the poet," he mocked. "Even when your words don't rhyme."

I growled. "Shut up. And get off. You smell, you know that?"

Just because I couldn't contain the remark, he enveloped me in a bear-hug, nearly choking me to death. That had two disadvantages; losing oxygen and being unable to inhale anything but malodor.

Maitimo might have fainted a few minutes ago, but I was quickly freed of that fantasy when he appeared out of the corner of my eyes, supported by Caranthir.

Being the _wonderful_ eldest brother he is, he intervened before I went to sing before Mandos of my regret that I didn't kill Tyelkormo while I had the chance: "Don't kill him, Tyelkormo. Ammë won't be happy, and Atar will probably have us deliver the festering dung all the way to wherever it's supposed to be dropped off."

I saw a blinding white light as my animal of a brother gave me one last squeeze before letting go. Choking on fresh air, I let out a breath that I wasn't aware I had been holding. Then again, I almost died. If I thought back on it, I would have realised that I looked like a fish out of water and laughed at it.

A smelly fish out of water, with his young smelly fish brother and two sharks that smelled to high fish heavens.

If fish had heavens, of course.

* * *

><p>When we walked into the halls, I envisioned flowers wilting in their glass vases.<p>

Although...Tyelkormo's face would have done the job too, and twice as better.

Several Elves passing by (there seemed to be a lot of Elves passing by lately) covered their noses and hurried along quickly, to which Maitimo rolled his eyes and muttered, "Upstart, prissy nobles."

"You're one of them," Tyelkormo sighed.

"I have the power—" _Not this again..._

"I wish I had the power to shut both of you up," I interrupted firmly. "Now, I have no intention of standing here, emitting mephitis..."

"—to chain you to your bed post and laugh as you struggle futilely," continued Maitimo, as if I had not even spoken.

Was my two-sentence speech so unintimidating? It obviously fell on deaf Elven ears. And that is something that I never thought possible.

"I have the power," Tyelkormo shot back; "to remove the bed post from the bed and whack you upside the head with it."

Maitimo raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms over his chest smugly, and he looked like Ammë when she got her way. "I have the power to take that bed post and stick it up a place where you don't want it to be."

Moments of silence...

"What the heck, Maitimo!"

I don't think even I could have prevented Caranthir from hearing that. Yes, I could only watch as his eyes grew wider by the second as he registered what Maitimo said. Put that together with a bagel and banana, and you've got... Bam.

We kept on walking, and I could tell that all four of us were trying desperately not to think on what Maitimo said. At all. I wasn't a very dirty-minded person, so I wouldn't dwell on that too much, but Tyelkormo and Maitimo were very, _very_ dirty-minded people that could find more ways to handle a tomato than you would have thought possible. I had imagination, yeah, but not...that.

"We're here," Tyelkormo announced.

I shot him a pointed look. "Why do I suddenly get the feeling that you're going to shove me into a closet with some random maid that walks by?"

"That would be murder, just putting her within a mile of your miasma, Makalaurë," he retorted. "Now, we're actually at the baths."

* * *

><p>Maybe, if the stink wasn't so far up our heads, we would have realised one crucial piece of information. Or maybe <em>I<em>, the smart one, would have realised that one crucial piece of information before we decided to make an intelligent decision to take a bath.

-**A**t the public baths.

-**W**ithout a change of clothes.

-**E**xcept for the ones that practically stank up the atmosphere.

I was in awe by my stupidity.

"I am not going to streak down the hallway just to get our clothes, Makalaurë!" Maitimo shouted.

Tyelkormo snorted at the idea of it. "You'll be mooning maidens everywhere you go, Mai-ti-mo!"

"Shut up!"

I tried to be the voice of not-so-much-reason here. "Please, Maitimo. It will only be one time. Besides. You're the well_-_shaped one, so it only makes sense for you to be the one to streak down the hallway."

"Valar, no!"

"You are our older brother," Tyelkormo reminded him.

"Not even if Lord Manwë himself begs it of me, no!"

I turned to Tyelkormo grimly. "What do we do now?"

He turned to Maitimo, who was slowly sinking his head into the water. If the room wasn't so pretty and I wasn't looking at it, I would have probably realised that his face was as red as his hair. Then, an idea popped up my head, and Tyelkormo obviously had the same notion. We both turned to Caranthir, who was lazily floating upwards in the air.

"Caranthir!" Tyelkormo called.

Caranthir's body floated towards us. Then, his voice made its way to our ears: "I'm not streaking down the hallway either."

Then the door slid open from the outside—and all of the slight mist that built up in the garden-like room quickly escaped. I probably should have described the baths earlier, but it was like a small spring that had white walls surrounding it, no ceiling, and a small door that slid open easily. Did I mention that the walls were painted like a garden landscape?

But back to the door:

Then the door slid open from the outside, and we all quickly ducked down except for Caranthir. Maitimo, who had just came up from the water, sunk back into the water, taking a deep breath. I couldn't hear anything then, but I tried my best to exchange glances with Tyelkormo, who had his eyes open as well, through the water that blurred my vision.

For all I know, Caranthir was swimming towards the figure that entered. Then I could only remember coming up for air and seeing...

"BALROG! AI, VALAR, A BALROG!" Tyelkormo shouted.

The figure was draped in black and shadow, and something red gleamed, both contrasting sharply with the white walls. My vision was still a little messy from staying underwater with my eyes open, so I had to blink several times. All the while, Maitimo and Tyelkormo dragged me to the opposite end of the small spring, determined to believe that it was a Balrog...

...that Caranthir was swimming towards! Ai, Valar! Atar was going to kill us for letting Caranthir swim the doom of death...

"Maitimo, Makalaurë, Tyelkormo, why in the name of Arda did you come here without a change of clothes?"

Upon me fully regaining mastery of my sight, I saw Atar, arms full of elfling.

"Um..." I said intelligently. I can't believe I actually thought my father was a Balrog, coming to attack us. "Well..."

The three of us still stayed at the far end of the pool, just in case he did suddenly jump into the water and try to drown us. His upraised eyebrow did nothing to ease the awkwardness in the light of our...obliviousness.

"The horse stables—" Maitimo began.

"—made us emit poisonous fumes—" Tyelkormo finished. "So we came here."

Atar shook his head and sighed in exasperation. "I brought you all a change of clothes. We have a feast to attend tonight, and _everyone_, including the servants, will had to attend. So that means even if you can get out of it because your mother allowed you to, you still have to go." I was about to protest to that, but one look from him cut me off. He also looked like he was about to add something, but Caranthir stopped that.

"Will you swim with us?"

It was an odd request, but Atar's face softened.

"Only for a little while," he finally said. "But then we all have to get out."

Caranthir jumped out of his arms in glee and produced a giant splash in the spring. Atar did not even bother stripping off his robes before he joined us. Of course, we had to get payback for him scaring us...

"Oh-ho, Tyelkormo, you are going to _get _it," Atar said in a deadly quiet voice. But his eyes shone with fatherly love.

"Bring it."

I decided to stay back and referee what eventually turned into a competition. Maitimo and Tyelkormo teamed up against Atar and Caranthir. At this point, Atar had to shrug off his outer robes, and it revealed an old tunic on the inside. It was now drenched in water, along with the red sequin that he always wore (it was a bequeathment of Grandmother's making).

Then I was pulled into the middle of it and got pelted with water.

How's that for father-and-sons bonding?

* * *

><p>We showed up for the feast separately, because Atar had to escort Ammë into the banquet hall. Although, we all know he loved doing that, just to show off that Ammë was all his, and that she was the best Elf-lady in all of Tirion.<p>

Maybe that's a son's biased opinion, corresponding with his father's biased opinion as well, but every son does that.

I walked in with Caranthir and to my annoyance received several adoring looks from Elf-maidens. I noticed how the servants didn't even give me one glance. Tyelkormo walked in with Maitimo (because I didn't want to be thought as _short_), and they shortly (don't even say it) followed after us. When we made our way over to the table, I distinctly wondered where I would sit. I was informed that there were no seating arrangements, so anyone could sit where they please.

Upon entrance, I noted that Silmalir and Fánamaril sat with Lady Alquasar and her daughters. So, with a slow-paced decision, I took a seat next to Silmalir. I noted that Maitimo sat next to Findekáno, and Tyelkormo placed himself between Aicelen and Lohtilin, facing Fánamaril. He didn't realise Aicelen would be sitting there until she arrived at the table, her face powdered with an inordinate amount on her cheeks.

Caranthir sat next to Atar and Ammë, despite the fact that I would allow him to sit in my lap... He patted me pityingly on the shoulder.

Lady Alquasar greeted us as the meal began, and I forced a polite smile.

Silmalir sat quietly next to me, hiding her face with a curtain of dark hair. I didn't even try to hold a conversation—she would probably end it abruptly with a nervous laugh. Or drag her chair off with her to sit somewhere in a garden. Of course, I caught her looking at me once, but maybe it was because I had something on my face at that time.

Next to Lady Alquasar sat a guest that was to stay at the palace for the day so she could continue on to Taniquetil, and her name was Lady Finienel. They both spoke with each other, though I could distinguish a slight strained voice on Lady Alquasar's part.

"Makalaurë," hissed Tyelkormo.

I turned to face him, raising an eyebrow.

He jerked his head towards the banquet hall. "Let's go!"

What? "Why?" I whispered.

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes and said, "Because I said so."

I sighed and excused myself from the table, earning myself a curious look from Atar. Tyelkormo followed shortly after, and I turned to glare at him as he exited the hall with Maitimo.

"What is it?" I asked.

He turned his head this way and that before facing me again. "They weren't talking to us. Did we do something wrong?"

It's true that I was curious, and I had wanted to ask Silmalir. This was something I pondered in the morning today. Alas, I had no answer, so I merely shrugged and settled for staring back into the crack of the door, trying to catch a sight of Silmalir.

Maitimo rolled his eyes. "I think I shall go back to my room, now that we have been excused from the banquet hall."

"I do wonder why three young Elves like you would wish to miss out on a great feast," mused a light voice from behind us. Oh, we didn't even bother to turn around to see who it was.

"Yes, I agree," said a softer voice. "Do tell us..." Uncle Nolofinwë and Uncle Arafinwë.

"Hello, Uncles," Maitimo greeted politely, turning around, and we followed suit.

Atar wasn't there—as the eldest son of King Finwë, he had to stay during these royal feasts and banquets and dinners. He hated them as much as I did, so we weren't too different in personality.

"It was too stuffy in there," I explained lamely. "I don't like feasts, or parties, for that matter."

Uncle Arafinwë smiled. "Of course. You are just like your father."

I took that as a compliment.

* * *

><p>Caranthir and Findekáno joined us later, and we all sat on the roof of the palace, watching the Mindon wind up into the dusk-sky like a never-ending pike. I leaned over the edge to watch any passersby. Then, to my surprise, I saw Silmalir and Fánamaril chatting with Lady Finienel, the very Lady Finienel that Lady Alquasar showed ill-concealed hostility towards.<p>

"You must understand," said Lady Finienel; "that I only wish for you to call me Finienel. I am no Lady in the palace."

I did not bother to listen to the rest. Tyelkormo, however, was listening as well, and he listened to the end of their conversation, where they parted ways under the willow tree in the garden. Then he leaned back and rested his head beneath his entwined hands, sighing.

"Eavesdropper," I commented.

He grinned, eyes closed. "I don't drop eaves, Makalaurë. I lean over them and listen to loud conversations." Then his face smoothed out into a frown. "I don't like that Lady Finienel."

"She didn't do anything to you."

"I have a bad feeling about it, though. She kept staring at me while I was trying to get Fánamaril's attention. You were staring at Silmalir. So of course _you_ didn't notice."

"So just because a woman looks like she fancies you, you think that she must be under some spell, correct?"

Tyelkormo opened his eyes. "No. I have a bad feeling about it _because_ it didn't look like she just fancied me. If something goes wrong, don't think I won't tell you 'I told you so.' Anticipation."

That one-word proverb was supremely annoying. "Anticipation? Really, Tyelkormo?"

"Really. Now, go talk to Silmalir, and warn her about Lady Finienel. I'm going to speak with Fánamaril and see if she anticipates something bad to happen too."

"She'll think that you've lost it."

He stuck his tongue out at me. "Shut up."

We both climbed down the wall, with surprising amounts of footholds.

* * *

><p>"Silmalir!" I whispered from behind a rose bush, watching in amusement as she spun around, trying to find me.<p>

"I have a...hair pin, and I'm not afraid to stab you with it," she warned.

I stepped out from behind it and smiled. "Relax. It's me."

She looked like she was about to sigh with despair, but instead her face lit up against her will, and she smiled back at me. Now, that was the reaction I expected from her every time I saw her.

"Hello," she said softly.

Conversation had been so easy in the closet. I spotted a bench and sat down, gesturing for her to sit next to me. She came over slowly, almost reluctantly, and sat as far away as polite. And as the bench would allow. This was one of those 'lover benches,' as Atar dubbed it.

"How are you?" I asked. Was I really out of words to say?

"You saw me this morning," she reminded me.

"Oh. Right."

Awkward silence...

"You know," she started; "I'm afraid of the dark." I looked up at the darkening sky. This was when only Telperion's light danced upon brilliant blue, allowing the latter to pale and darken in comparison. "It's not so dark now, but when I sleep, I always sleep near the window."

This was very personal; I could tell. "Oh."

Wow, Makalaurë! What a wonderful reply!

Silmalir chuckled. "My sentiments precisely." Her face was soft and unguarded, and I settled for looking back every once and a while to see it. "I always thought I was quite cowardly because of it. My father told me that there was a Light in everyone, and some Lights appealed to one more than others would. That was if the person truly cared for you, and they wished you nothing but joy."

Her body may have been with me, and her voice, but I know her spirit was far away, revering in the memory of her father.

"Atar was my Light. When my Ammë died, he was always there," she said. "I never obsessed over the darkness again." Her expression darkened then, and her mouth curved into a slight frown. "Then he passed away, and I was left with Lady Alquasar."

"What was his name?" I surprised myself with my own boldness.

"Lord Almarawë," she replied. "Bird of blessedness."

"Lord Almarawë," I repeated. "A very lovely name."

Silmalir smiled. "Thank you." Then she turned to the sky, and her eyes seemed to show depth. "I must go... I wasn't supposed to stay here for so long..."

Confusion. "What do you mean?"

She got to her feet and bowed. "Thank you for your time, Lord Kanafinwë, but I must be going now."

Since when did she call me Kanafinwë? "Should I escort you, or...?"

As if pondering greatly, Silmailr shook her head. "Lady Alquasar will be waiting." She turned around and started to walk away until I remembered that I was supposed to warn her about Lady Finienel.

"Wait."

She stopped and turned around. "Yes, my lord?"

Valar, I hated that title. "Be careful. Some visitors of the palace are not all what they seem."

She smiled weakly. "Thank you." Then she bade me a good sleep and left.

* * *

><p>After she walked away, I slumped weakly against the bench and wondered what I did wrong this time. I looked up to the sky and saw that the silver light was stronger than it was a few moments ago. Sighing, I went over the conversation again, thinking that maybe if I hadn't been so...unresponsive, she would have stayed longer.<p>

_Maybe she thought I was boring._

No, I wasn't boring. I immediately ruled that out. No son of Fëanáro was boring.

_Maybe I looked like a complete jerk with those insensitive responses._

It was possible...

"Makalaurë!"

_Maybe Tyelkormo should go die..._

Yes.

Tyelkormo sidled over to me and plopped down onto the bench. "How did it go, Makalaurë? Did she say that she could protect herself just fine?"

I looked up and shook my head. "No, but—wait, what? Is that what Fánamaril said to you?"

He nodded glumly. "Shouted at me for being so overprotective, then apologised for shouting at me, and then walked away, mumbling to herself about how she was already a good three hundred and seven years old and that she could protect herself. What did Silmalir say to you?"

"She told me about herself and then abruptly left. She called me by Kanafinwë. And added _lord_ to it. What did I do wrong?" I asked miserably.

By now, I realised that Lord + Kanafinwë was not a term of endearment with Silmalir.

Tyelkormo shook his head. "Maidens are so _troublesome_. Always so enigmatic. Mysterious. Difficult to understand."

"Whoa. When did you learn such big words, Tyelkormo?" I joked.

He raised his thumb and little finger, successfully flicking me off in Elvish. "Just because you're three hundred and eleven doesn't mean you can tease me, Makalaurë. I can still outrun you and grab a pie from the kitchen, all the while watching you pant and glare at me for eating pie."

"Just because you are only three years younger than me does not mean that I cannot tease you, Tyelkormo. I can outplay you in the art of the harp and watch as you lap at your fingertip wounds, as well as sing while you can barely croak out a note on tenor."

His head fell back with a sigh, and he rested his hand on my shoulder. "We should probably get back to Maitimo and the others."

For once, I didn't bother to give him a sarcastic remark.

Brothers.

* * *

><p><strong>BAD NEWS: I POSTED THIS TO MITIGATE MY PUNISHMENT BECAUSE THIS STORY WILL BE ON HIATUS FOR THREE WEEKS<br>**I really hope you guys won't kill me for this...but I really don't know what I was thinking when I started this story in the summer. I'm not going to delete it, so don't jump the gun. But I'll have to be gone for three weeks. I promise that I will update as soon as I get back, which will be July 2nd. Please forgive me in advance, because it's going to be a very long wait. So I hope you'll continue to read after I return!

_Five thousand and four-hundred words! A break from that normal two-thousand._

Please don't kill me?

**Next chapter: Silmalir's fear (and no, I am not trying to mock you with this).**

**I can only hope that you will continue to read this...  
>despite my failings.<strong>


	10. A Greatest Fear

**Er... Well, I'm back? I'm so sorry...**

**First: I give you full opportunity to slap me in the face with a fish.  
>Second: This is from Silmalir's perspective. And it is elaborating Silmalir's personality.<br>Third: Thank all of you who have remained patient with me and would continue to read this, despite my three weeks of absence.**

* * *

><p>Lady Alquasar didn't like Lady Finienel. I knew that much. I was not blind to everything that happened around me, such as the hurt that radiated off of Makalaurë when he realised that I would not speak to him, and then the persistence of Tyelkormo wishing to speak to Fánamaril, as she told me later on. She also mentioned that males were too chauvinistic, and as long as Tyelkormo remained that way, she wouldn't even bother to call him by his name.<p>

Today, I was sure that Lady Alquasar would have felt provoked when Lady Finienel asked for Fánamaril and my company. As I was about to leave the lounging room that had been set up for our stay, I looked around at the scenery and the chair that Lady Alquasar would have sat in.

I imagined the conversation in my head:

_"I do not trust that lady."_

_I gave her a forced smile. "Thank you for your concern, my lady."_

_She frowned at my response but nodded. "Go and have fun then."_

But she had directly told us not to have any contact with Lady Finienel. Though we abided by her orders not to speak with Makalaurë and his brothers, I simply could not find the willpower to abide by this one command.

We meandered through the gardens as Lady Finienel requested, and I walked slightly ahead as she and Fána chatted about nothing in particular. I thought about the conversation I had with Makalaurë yesterday, where I told him about my father. It was the very same garden, and I almost managed to see him and me, sitting there and talking about nothing. Although I did most of the talking while he just nodded and listened.

Then I caught a hold of the conversation and Fána's uneasy voice.

"So, do you know Lord Turcafinwë very well?" Lady Finienel asked.

"Um...not really, my lady. He is a lord, and I am a servant, and we barely see each other in the halls."

"Surely you and him are friends, then? He sat across from you."

"He sat between Lady Aicelen and Lady Lohtilin." Fánamaril's voice was strained.

I turned around and added my assent. "The daughters of Lady Alquasar are truly beautiful." Fána nodded. "I would not be surprised."

Lady Finienel looked like she wasn't satisfied with this answer, but she let it go. "Oh, alright. Let us have some tea, then. I fancy the brand from Taniquetil, but I hear that it is only in storage, and that it must be fetched from the cabinets."

Obviously she wanted us to go get it.

Fána smiled politely. "I shall go 'fetch' the tea."

I didn't want to be left alone with Lady Finienel. I looked around for a random servant that I recognised: Riellondë. "Riellondë! Do you mind staying with Lady Finienel for just one moment? I shall get a chair that is suitable for sitting."

Riellondë blinked for a few moments, as if not comprehending. She soon found her at the end of Lady Finienel's penetrating gaze as I went away with Fánamaril to find a chair and that Taniquetil tea.

* * *

><p>I asked Ringalannë if there was any tea from Taniquetil in the stores. She shrugged and said that I could check. Then she remembered that it was locked, the tea storage room (there are many storage rooms, so they had to be separately named), and led us to one of the rooms on the first floor.<p>

Upon arrival, Ringalannë warned Fánamaril that the door was old, and that would lock again if it was closed, so we had to be careful in going in. Of course, Fána didn't like the sound of that, so I volunteered to go in, much to my stupidity. Ringalannë simply shook her head and went away, muttering something about good luck and the Valar's blessing.

I turned to Fánamaril. "You go get the chair. I'll look for the tea."

And with that, I stepped into the room. The very room that had only one torch and was pretty dark. The only thing that kept me strong was the light filtering from the crack in the doorway. I took the torch from the holder and began my tedious search of tea. I slowly began to feel like a ridiculous coward with a ridiculous fear of the dark when I realised it wasn't so bad after all.

There were footsteps, but I paid it no heed and continued to sweep the room. Then my brilliant mind figured out that it might be in order with the symbols of the Sarati. Unlike most servants, I was quite educated, taught by my father and tutors. Then, abruptly, the door swung shut with a loud noise of the hinges being rocked, and I stupidly dropped the torch in my shock. The light went out, and darkness quickly dominated as the torch cooled off. I gasped and quickly ran towards the door.

No, no, _no! _

"_Manya_!" No...

When there was no respose, I continued to shout out, "_Manya! Manya!"_

Footsteps padded away, and I came to the epiphany that someone had locked me in here, all alone in the dark. Tears started to form, threatening to overflow ever to my burning shame, and I raised a hand—only to drag it down the cold door and wipe my eyes. Why would someone do this to me? Me, of all people? Me, the one who was afraid of the dark?

I gave up trying to call for help and fell to my knees against the cold cellar wall. (I knew that it once was a wine cellar that turned into a tea storeroom.) And I allowed myself to cry, knowing my father wouldn't find me this time. He couldn't.

Not when we were so far away from each other.

* * *

><p>Fánamaril began to worry for Silmalir. She still hadn't showed with the tea, and Riellondë reported that Lady Finienel left a while ago. Then Lady Finienel returned from out of nowhere with a smug look on her face. Then her face was contorted of shock, confusion, and horror at seeing Fánamaril.<p>

"What is it, my lady?" she ground out.

"You—I—nothing," Lady Finienel said finally. "Where is the tea?"

Fána bowed in apology. "Silmalir has not come back yet. I assume that she is still searching the stores, my lady." _My lady this, my lady that._

"Ah. Well, I shall retire for the day."

_What?_ Did she hear Lady Finienel correctly? "Pardon, Lady Finienel?"

She shot Fánamaril an irritated look. "I _said_ that I would retire for the day, as in _rest_, and partake in no more activites." When Fána made to follow after her, she raised a hand. "I shall go alone."

Fánamaril stood there, puzzled as Lady Finienel strode away, her gown basically wiping the cobblestone path. Without something to do, she thought it would be best to take the chair back to the banquet hall.

Then her thoughts wandered back to Silmalir, and why she did not come back either with tea or empty-handed. Where was she? Perhaps she got caught up trying to avoid Maitimo, Makalaurë, and Tyelkormo—

"Fánamaril."

_The Valar must hate me,_ she mused quietly.

"Why do you think the Valar hate you?"

_Did I say that out loud?_

"Yes."

Fánamaril turned around, not surprised when she saw Tyelkormo's fair face. "Greetings, Lord Turcafinwë." She resisted the urge to smile when he made a face at his _ataressë._

He put a hand on her shoulder. "Just call me Tyelkormo, like you used to. That name is simply too old for my taste."

"But you are older than your name," she remarked.

He rolled his eyes, but his face softened. "I'm sorry if I offended you yesterday. I wanted to warn you against Grandfather's guest."

"Lady Finienel?"

"Precisely."

"I doubt she is anyway harmful, my lord. Tiresome, but not harmful."

"Fánamaril—"

Said female Elf thought she caught sight of Lady Alquasar. "I must go."

"Wait, Fánamaril—"

"Goodbye," she said, ending the conversation. She was about to leave when something caught hold of her upper arm. "My lord, I really must—"

"Fánamaril," Tyelkormo said in a low voice. "Look. I'm sorry for whatever I did. I just wish you and Silmalir would speak to me again."

"It's not you—" she choked out.

"It probably is! My Ammë didn't speak to my Atar for an entire week because he did not check on her for one night! Tell me what I did wrong, Fánamaril, so the Valar might allow me to change what happened!"

Fána sighed. "Not so loud, Tyelkormo." His shoulders nearly sagged with relief. "I am allowed to speak to neither you nor your brothers."

Of course, this time Tyelkormo's shoulders sagged, but with dejection. "What... Why?"

"Lady Alquasar."

Of course. It had been that lady all along. "And you abide by that command?"

"Why shouldn't I?"

"It would make your life a lot more lively if you spoke with my brothers and I."

"Yeah right." Tyelkormo suddenly grinned. Fána immediately associated it with a dreading feeling. "What?" she asked defensively.

"You are speaking to me."

She rolled her eyes. "I am going now—"

"No, wait."

"What now, Tyelkormo? I hate to leave, but I have to find Silmalir!"

"Wait, what?"

"Oh, so now you decide to listen to my protests?" Fánamaril muttered. "I. Need. To. Find. Silmalir. She didn't come back after I left her in the storerooms."

Tyelkormo's expression grew more troubled by the minute as he pondered his answer. "There are almost a hundred storerooms in this palace, Fána. She could be in any one, and we wouldn't be able to find her. Do you know _exactly _where it is?"

"I think so. Ringalannë led us to it, and I remembered that there was a tapestry hanging on the wall next to the small hallway leading into it. It is on this floor, I am sure."

"East wing or west?"

"East, I think."

Tyelkormo grinned. "Then what are we waiting for?"

* * *

><p><em>Cold<em>.

That is how I felt.

_Numb_.

That is what I was.

_Dark_.

That is what I was surrounded in.

I could see myself, distinct and glowing, and it frightened me. I could see nothing else but two ghostly pale hands, connected to wrist and arm. But I could not see anything else. It was unnatural to emit light in darkness without the blessing of the Valar. I was scared. My throat was hoarse from crying, so I no longer pleaded for help. I settled for slumping against the cold, uneven surface of the wall and continued to weep of my situation, keeping my hands at my sides so I would not see them.

Unlike the other doors in the palace, such as the door to the room that I resided in, this door was a perfect fit for the height of the hallway to floor. The bottom rested on firm ground, so I could not lay down on my side and look for any feet that might come towards the storeroom. The room was all but dark, and I was spared only by my luminescent glow. And that only added to my torture.

You see, I realised I was afraid of the dark when I was five.

Aicelen and Lohtilin (eleven and ten, respectively) locked me into the cupboard under the grand stairs, and it was very dark. There was a slight crack under the door where I could stick my fingers out, which I did, to get any passerby's attention. Atar found me there, crying and screaming, and he told me about the Light in all of us when I would not go to sleep, for fear of the dark room.

This was different..

With my eyes open, I only saw darkness.

But with my eyes closed, I saw my Atar and Ammë, smiling at me.

They were joyously laughing, holding each other in their arms. Ammë gestured for me to join them, but I couldn't move.

Why couldn't I move?

* * *

><p><em>manya:<em> ask for help

_ataressë:_ father-name

**I can only say...  
>Please forgive me?<strong>


	11. Found

**This is first person perspective of Makalaurë. There will be no perspective of Silmalir here, so otherwise it is third-person if Makalaurë isn't present.**

**By the way, Fánamaril and Tyelkormo don't start looking for Silmalir until the next day because the former had to go back to Lady Alquasar to not look suspicious.**

* * *

><p>Why was I chosen, of all the Elves in Tirion, to babysit an elfling that didn't even know the definition of 'behave?' Why did Atar, of all people, agree with Grandfather about it? And why did he choose Caranthir to help me?<p>

I ended up babysitting not one, but _two_, elflings for the entire day. Well, actually, I ended up trying to find two elflings because they suggested we play 'Hide and Seek,' the sneaky elflings they are. I don't know where Uncle Nolofinwë went wrong with Findekáno—wait, no. I don't know where I went wrong with Caranthir. He was supposed to agree with his _brother_, for the Valar's sake.

Now I had to search two mischief-making elflings that would probably land me in the horse stables with a fork to groom the horses.

I let out a frustrated sigh.

"Giving birth?"

I turned around and put on my best dark look. "Shut up, Maitimo."

Maitimo grinned before putting on a serious look. "Have you seen Tyelkormo anywhere? Ammë needs his help."

"Why does Ammë need his help? Why couldn't she need your help?" I countered for the heck of it.

"Because she needs to fit Tyelkormo for his tunics and robes."

My argument came to an abrupt stop. "Oh. I don't know where he went. Last time I checked, he said he was going to the first floor to speak with Fánamaril again. Said he spotted her in the gardens." I jerked a thumb over the balustrade and at the inner garden. "I told him good luck. Fánamaril stormed off after he tried to talk to her the first time."

"Go with me to find him," he said.

"I can't. I have to find Findekáno and Caranthir." I heaved a sigh. "They forced me into playing hide-and-seek with them, and if I don't find them before they set the walls on fire, Atar will have me groom the horses, and Uncle Nolofinwë will make me do it with a fork."

He snorted. "I'll look for Findekáno and Caranthir. You look for Tyelkormo."

Suspicion rose in me. "What's the catch, Russandol?"

"Catch?" he repeated innocently. "What do you mean?"

"How did you suddenly evolve from wanting to find Tyelkormo to playing a children's game?"

"I don't want to search for Tyelkormo."

"He'll be so happy to hear that from you, Maitimo."

Maitimo rolled his eyes and pushed me in the direction of the main entrance stairs. "Just go find him."

* * *

><p>"Are you absolutely <em>sure<em> this is where the storage room is?" Tyelkormo asked for the _tenth_ time. "The door is closed. Maybe Silmalir left after realising there wasn't any of that old tea that Lady Finienel wanted."

Fánamaril rolled her eyes, but she stared at the door hesitantly. They stood at the entrance of the hallway and whispered so no passersby could hear what they said. She had to be very careful, in case she was caught by Lady Alquasar with Tyelkormo.

"I am pretty sure," she whispered back. "But maybe Silmalir did leave and came to the gardens after I left. She isn't known to give up. I know that much."

He sighed wearily. "Let's try another one. It's on this floor too."

She shrugged. "Alright."

* * *

><p>Caranthir panted. "Findekáno...are you sure this is a hiding place?"<p>

Findekáno grinned at his half-cousin. "Of course, Caranthir. I hide here all the time when Atar wants to introduce me to a tutor, or some upstart noble Lord or Lady, or even a new set of robes."

The young son of Prince Fëanáro looked up uncertainly at the long archway that sloped gently down along the stairs to a large wooden door. There was a tapestry of the Two Trees hung from the wall next to the archway, and several torch holders positioned across the walls in the archway.

"How are we going to hide?" Caranthir protested.

"We'll just stay here," Findekáno replied smoothly. He plopped down on the floor and leaned against the large wooden door. "Sit down. It's no use wasting energy standing."

Caranthir did as he was told for once and allowed his head to rest against the door. Then, the most amazing thing happened. He heard a silent breath being drawn and then expelled, like the singing wind. He looked up in amazement at the door and turned to Findekáno, eyes wide.

"The door's breathing," he whispered.

Findekáno raised an eyebrow, and Caranthir simply pointed to the door. So he placed his ear a fingernail's length away from the door and listened intently, waiting to hear if this was indeed true. A few minutes later, a look of surprise appeared on his face, along with a slight confusion and suspicion. He knocked on the door loudly, hoping to ellicit a response.

_"Manya ní..."_

His eyes widened. "Did you hear that?" Caranthir nodded. "Quick. Go get help."

Caranthir quickly got up and raced up the stairs, banking right and running to the only one who could help: Fiondo.

Findekáno stayed their and whispered hesitantly to the door. "Are you alive?"

"_Help me..."_

"Caranthir has gone for help."

_"The darkness..." _the door whispered.

"How can doors talk?" Findekáno mused to himself.

"_I hate the darkness..."_

It was not the door speaking, he realised with horror. It was a person. The door was wooden and thin, allowing sound to escape. (Findekáno made a note to mention this to his Atar about getting a door like that for his room.)

"_Manya ní..."_

"Help is coming."

The voice spake no longer.

* * *

><p>"Fánamaril!" Lady Alquasar screamed from the other end of the hallway.<p>

She silently cursed herself for being so obvious. Next to her, Tyelkormo looked around for a hiding place as the fuming Lady made her way over to her servant. As soon as she got to Fánamaril, she took hold of her wrist and started to drag her back down the hallway.

"Wait! Lady Alquasar!" Tyelkormo called.

Lady Alquasar stopped and turned around. "You have meddled enough, son of Fëanáro." Her eyes darkened to the likeness of a violet-blue color. "What business do you have with Fánamaril?"

Tyelkormo looked down for a moment before staring defiantly back at Lady Alquasar. "I am helping her search for Silmalir."

Her mouth curved into a frown. "Good. Then you will be able to answer my questions." She turned to Fánamaril. "You disobeyed my orders, Fánamaril. I told you not to remain in contact with that cursed Elf-lady, and you went behind my back to do it. We will speak of this later. Meanwhile, I shall join you in your search for Silmalir. Where did you see her last?"

Fánamaril was relieved that Lady Alquasar would not have a fit right then and there. "Well, my lady, we already checked the storeroom that I had left her in, so we decided to search about the palace."

"A wild goose chase."

Tyelkormo nodded with a resigned air. Then, to add things to the stressful situation, Makalaurë appeared around the corner, muttering to himself.

* * *

><p>I walked around yet <em>another<em> corner and told myself that Tyelkormo would be found soon. Then I saw him, standing with Fánamaril and Lady Alquasar, and I was greatly confused by what was happening.

"Makalaurë!" Fánamaril breathed, relief showing on her face. "Thank the Valar!"

Confused, I strode over to Tyelkormo and fixed him with a straight stare. "Ammë is looking for you."

Tyelkormo frowned. "There are more pressing matters. Have you seen Silmalir?"

"Silmalir?" I hadn't seen her since the day before yesterday. Was she missing? "Not today, I haven't."

"Then yesterday?" Lady Alqusar prompted.

"No. I saw her the day before yesterday."

Fána groaned. "Where could Silmalir have gone? The palace is too large to conduct a search of each room! At this rate, we'll never find her, and we'll have to hold a funeral without her body."

"That's a little far-fetched," Tyelkormo mused.

Silmalir was missing? So she hadn't been avoiding me then. What did she get herself into this time? I dearly hoped that she was alright.

"Eru help us," I said after some time. "Perhaps we will be able to find her with four people in on the search. The robes can wait."

"Robes?"

"Yes, Tyelkormo, robes. Ammë needs to fit you for new robes. Especially after you set fire to your last set..." I forced myself to say, trying to lighten up the situation.

* * *

><p>"Fiondo!"<p>

Fiondo blinked and turned around to see Caranthir running towards her. "Lord Morifinwë?"

"Fiondo, help is needed!"

She was puzzled. "What do you mean, my lord?" He was about to turn back from where he came.

"Talking door—needing help—archway next to tapestry—keys," Caranthir said between pants, his sentences cut off into phrases. But Fiondo made sense of what he said and followed after him.

"Lord Morifinwë," she said as he regained his breath and walked swiftly. "What has happened for you to seek my help?"

"There was a talking door in the tea storeroom," he explained. "It said 'help me.' So I went to get help."

It didn't make too much sense. "Was anyone with you?"

"Findekáno."

* * *

><p>Findekáno heard his name being called. When he turned around, the sight of Caranthir and Fiondo greeted his eyes, and he almost sighed with relief. He quickly gestured to the door, and she took a ring of keys from a pouch on her battered apron. Then she walked down the steps and placed the key into the keyhole and turned it.<p>

Caranthir stayed at the top of the small staircase, and Findekáno joined him after moving out of the way.

"Did the door say anything else?" the former asked.

The latter frowned. "It wasn't the door. It was a person inside. The voice stopped talking though."

Suddenly, a growl came from Fiondo's throat. The two elflings blinked.

"Fiondo?" Caranthir said.

"Cursed keys—they all look alike," she muttered. She turned to the elflings. "It is nothing. I simply had the wrong key."

"_Manya..."_

Fiondo's eyes narrowed. She twisted the key in its place and the door unlocked with a click. Then she pulled it open and gasped.

"Silmalir!"

"Silmalir?" Caranthir and Findekáno echoed.

The pale, weak body of Silmalir lay in view from the door, on her side with her eyes closed. Dark hair spilled from her shoulders and spread out across the floor. Her hands were splayed out in front of her, and her lips were parted as she whispered quiet words.

"_Manya... Cálë..."_

* * *

><p>"Lady Alquasar!"<p>

She turned around at the sound of her name, as did Tyelkormo, Fánamaril, and I. A servant sauntered over with a worried look on her face, and Lady Alquasar's breath hitched in her throat. This could not be good.

"Lady Alquasar, Silmalir has been found," she said slowly.

Immediately, Lady Alquasar grasped her by the shoulders. "Where is she?"

"I-In her rooms, my lady."

Lady Alquasar turned her head slightly towards Fánamaril. "Come with me, Fánamaril."

Fána obeyed and followed as Lady Alquasar all but swept down the hallway towards the room that Silmalir would be resting in. Tyelkormo and I made to follow, but one glance from the Lady made us stop in their tracks. Tyelkormo thanked the servant as I started to pace around worriedly, head in my hands. I was curious about what happened, but my worry for Silmalir was greater.

_'Has been found...'_

Why did that phrase make it sound like she was dead?

'_Silmalir has been found...'_

Found... She was missing for a long time then.

"Makalaurë, for Eru's sake, stop pacing around! You are making me anxious as well!" Tyelkormo said.

I stopped. My heart might as well have stopped too.

* * *

><p><strong>How's that for drama? Should I ever write drama again, or should I leave it to the others?<strong>

_manya ní - help me  
>cálë - light<em>

To be continued...with the Light of Makalaurë!


	12. Only One Moment

**(This is the viewpoint of Lady Alquasar. If you don't want to read this part, you can skip it, but give her some sympathy too.)**

They disobeyed me. They directly disobeyed me and spent the day with Lady Finienel. Then Silmalir went missing, and I couldn't help but feel an oncoming sense of dread because of it. Did they really think that I enjoyed making their lives miserable? I cared for my servants, and though Silmalir might not think it, I cared for her too. She was the daughter of Lord Almarawë.

How could I not love her, when I loved him with all my heart?

I always knew that I would never compare to his first wife. Lady Nixorontë, known for her kindness. She was beautiful, yes, but more sharp at wit than appearance. I remembered seeing her by the lake during the shining of Telperion, dancing and singing to the birds.

I had thought she was Yavanna, and I greeted her in the way you would greet a Vala.

It was also that very same day that disaster struck.

The village on the outskirts of the city was attacked. Monsters, as I would call them, flooded the beautiful streets, lit by silver light. Their faces were horribly ruined and contorted with pain and bliss, and the leader smiled a horrible smile. Lord Almarawë, one of the lords that resided in the village, called together those who could fight, and they launched an attack on the monsters.

Cries of pain and hatred ran through the wind, and blood spattered on the stones of the small lake. I hid behind a large boulder with Lady Nixorontë, and she reassured me until a scream split through the air.

Her eyes had widened, and she ran towards the small house upon the edge of the lake.

A monster had taken hold of a little girl, and she thrashed and screamed, biting the great hand that came up to choke her into submission.

Lady Nixorontë rushed over to the thing that had the elfling. She started to plead, but it ignored her and continued walking. Her eyes started to tear, those brilliant stone-grey eyes, and her voice grew louder and shriller.

"_Please! Not her! Please spare her!"_

It reminded me of my two daughters, both of whom I knew were with my friend in Alqualondë.

Then, the monster dropped the child roughly onto the edge of the deep lake and struck Lady Nixorontë. She pushed it into the lake and scooped up the child in her arms, crying thankfully. Lord Almarawë appeared from the opening between the trees, and he fought off several other of the ugly things as Lady Nixorontë walked unsteadily around the edge of the lake.

A black gnarled hand shot out and grasped her ankle, and in her surprise, she dropped the child. She was dragged back into the lake while the child tried to stay the movement. Her little hands took hold of Lady Nixorontë's wrist and tugged back, but she was too weak. I sat back in shock, and Lady Nixorontë caught my eye, smiling weakly.

I remember running out from behind the boulder and trying to help the child.

Lord Almarawë made his way over, but it was too late—she was dragged beneath the surface. The little girl began to cry, and her eyes, stone-grey as well, shone brightly beneath the tangle of dark hair.

"_Sérë, Silmalir,"_ he had said shakily.

But she continued to cry, and I felt my heart go out to her.

* * *

><p><strong>This is third-person perspective.<strong>

* * *

><p>"<em>Cálë<em>..." Silmalir mumbled.

Lady Alquasar sat at Silmalir's bedside, shaking her head. She turned to Fánamaril. "Why does she keep saying _cálë_?" The latter was about to answer, but she continued to speak. "Would you open the curtains? Perhaps there is not enough light in the room."

Fánamaril made no move to open the curtains. "The curtains are already open, my lady. Perhaps you should rest. You have been watching over Silmalir for almost a day now."

"I rested this morning," Lady Alquasar replied smoothly. "Maybe it would work better if she was moved outside..."

"With all due respect, Lady Alquasar," said a voice from the doorway; "I do not think Silmalir can be moved in her weak state."

The two in the room turned around, and in came, in all his glory, King Finwë. Lady Alquasar got up from her place and started to curtsy when he simply gestured for her to sit down again. She inelegantly plopped back into the chair and tried her best smile.

"To what do I owe your glorious presence, my king?"

"Word has come to me that 'twas the fault of Lady Finienel, for she closed the door and caused it to lock while Silmalir was still inside," King Finwë said. "I have ended her stay here at the palace. I will not have a guest remain here if he or she mistreats my subjects, no matter how noble or important."

Fánamaril then realised something. "Lady Finienel didn't mean for Silmalir to become trapped inside the storeroom," she interjected abruptly before Lady Alquasar could give her thanks. The latter shot her a look that clearly said she shouldn't interrupt.

The king raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"I was the one who should have been locked inside. I was sent to look for the tea, and Lady Finienel did not know that Silmalir had gone in my place. But...why would she wish ill thoughts upon me?"

Lady Alquasar let out a humorless laugh. "That is precisely why I told you both not to speak with Lady Finienel, to not come in contact with her, to avoid any conversations. Now, look at Silmalir. She is wasting away upon the bed, and she will not open her eyes!"

Then her expression took on a defeated air.

"I mean no offence to you, my king, but I warned you and Silmalir, Fánamaril. I warned you and warned you, completely against you speaking with Lady Finienel and Prince Fëanáro's sons."

Fánamaril bowed her head. "I am sorry, my lady. I have failed you."

Lady Alquasar held up a hand. "I am not angry. I am merely allowing myself a few moments of pity." She turned to King Finwë. "May I request one thing of you, my king?"

He nodded. "I will grant you anything in my power to make up for the poor hospitality that has been shown towards your servants."

"I would like for Silmalir to rest near a larger light source. She always mutters _cálë._"

"_Ammë..."_

Lady Alquasar then turned around and ignored everything, focusing her attention on Silmalir. "Silmalir? Open your eyes. Please."

At that moment, Aicelen and Lohtilin quietly walked into the room and both sat on the other side of the bed. King Finwë quietly left, and Fánamaril joined the group at Lady Alquasar's side, holding Silmalir's clammy hand.

_Please wake up,_ she thought. _Please open your eyes, Silmalir!_

* * *

><p>"How is she, Atar?" asked Fëanáro as he watched his father enter his forge. His sons, Maitimo, Makalaurë, and Tyelkormo, were sitting inside, watching absentmindedly as their father struck at hard metal.<p>

Finwë shook his head. "I am afraid that she has still not awakened. She continues to mutter the word _light_."

Maitimo's head popped through the opening of the window. "Will Lady Alquasar allow us to visit her?"

Again, he shook his head. "Lady Alquasar said it herself—she is against any contact between you and your brothers and her servants."

Then, Maitimo pulled his head out of the window, and Makalaurë's took his place. "I know why she mutters the word light."

"Oh?" said Fëanáro. "Care to elaborate?"

Makalaurë shook his head. "It is a personal matter, Atar. It would be a break in trust."

His father turned back to his work. "We cannot force Lady Alquasar to allow you all to visit her. I could not go up to her myself and demand entry to the rooms, although if you would manage to get someone to convince her..." He let the suggestion trail off, as he always did when he knew it was a good idea to try.

However, the three didn't dwell on it too much, for Finwë brought another important matter to mind.

"It has been made known by the young Miss Fánamaril that what had happened was intended to ensnare her, instead. I am slightly confused by this, and I am hoping that you might provide a reasonable explan—"

"I told you so, Makalaurë!" Tyelkormo exclaimed. "_I_. _Told. You_. _So!_"

King Finwë blinked and turned to the golden-blonde blur in the tinted windowpane. "Tyelkormo?"

"I had a feeling that something like this would happen," Tyelkormo began. "I told Makalaurë. I told him that I didn't trust that Lady Finienel. I tried telling Fánamaril too, but she wouldn't listen!" Then it descended to something irrelevant to the current situation. "Why does no one ever listen to me? I occasionly spew out words of wisdom too—"

"The feeling that it would happen, Turco?" Maitimo interrupted.

Tyelkormo immediately stopped ranting and changed his intent to boring a hole in his brother's head. "I have the power to make you from Maitimo to Ilmaitimo."

"Not well-shaped one? What kind of name is that?"

"Exactly what it means."

"Well, I have the power to—"

"I have the power to end this argument right now," their grandfather broke in. "I declare this a stalemate. Now, Tyelkormo, provide the explanation."

"Lady Finienel was looking at me during the feast three days ago," Tyelkormo responded glumly, stumped that his fight had been ended without a victory. "I had a bad feeling about it, so I confronted Makalaurë, and we went off to tell Fánamaril and Silmalir. As you can tell, the two didn't listen, even when Lady Alquasar forbade them from spending time with Lady Finienel..."

After the lengthy explanation, in silence—_the_ Finwë, Curufinwë, Nelyafinwë, Kanafinwë, and Turcafinwë—the five Finwës' sat, and each pondered about what could have happened instead so that they could avoid situations like this later on. _This_ is how Elves gained wisdom.

* * *

><p>Silmalir did not open her eyes.<p>

No matter how much Fánamaril, Aicelen, and Lohtilin begged, she would not turn her head and open her eyes. Even Lady Alquasar, the honorable Lady Alquasar, resorted as low as pleading desperately (which is two steps lower than begging) for Silmalir to show everyone those stone-grey coals. The four sat around the bed, two facing the other, and Silmalir remained dormant on the bed.

There were occasional visitors: Fiondo, Ringalannë, Riellondë, Rínaquinë, and even the permitted members of the royal family, who, despite having the power to force their requests, were continually rejected the right for the sons of Prince Fëanáro to see Silmalir. Even said father of the sons could not convince Lady Alquasar to allow at least _one_ visit.

All the while, Silmalir repetitively mumbled the one word that everyone took as an impossible request.

"_Cálë..."_

The room was light enough as it is.

Physicians and healers came to check upon her, but no one knew why she would not open her eyes. No one could force her either.

At this point, the tension in the room was too great, and Fánamaril had to step outside to gather her bearings. To her surprise, the three brothers stood there, ere she could comprehend it, and they were all surprised to see her as well.

"Fánamaril?" Maitimo said aloud. "How is she?"

She shook her head, and that was all they needed to know.

"Fána," Tyelkormo pleaded. "You have to convince Lady Alquasar to let Makalaurë in. We all think, including Atar and Grandfather, that Makalaurë could get Silmalir to wake again. Please. Try to convince her, try to reason with her."

Fánamaril bit her lip. "I will try. But she probably will not agree to your terms."

* * *

><p>"Lady Alquasar—" Fána started, looking down at her hands.<p>

"No, Fánamaril," Lady Alquasar said, before she could even speak what she wished to say. "I simply cannot allow them inside."

"My lady, if you do not, Silmalir may never open her eyes again. They believe, as do I, that Lord Kanafinwë would be able to rouse Silmalir from her sleep. Please, Lady Alquasar. Surely you could allow him one moment?"

"Alright—"

"_Please,_ Lady Alquasar. I will get on my knees if I have to—wait, what?" Fánamaril looked up from her hands.

Her eyes met the sight of Lady Alquasar's amused expression. "I said that I shall allow him one moment."

"Thank you, my lady," Fánamaril sighed, relief flooding her voice. "Thank you so much."

Lady Alquasar turned to her daughters. "Come, Aicelen; come, Lohtilin. We shall allow Lord Kanafinwë to occupy Silmalir's time for _one_ moment." Then they got up and strode of the room stiffly, and Fánamaril followed after, leaving the door open for Makalaurë to enter.

And enter he did.

* * *

><p><strong>Maybe I'm not so good at writing drama... Yeah... But I tried my best.<strong>

**"If you ever drop your keys in a river of molten lava,  
>Let 'em go, man,<br>'cause they're already gone—"  
>Jack Handy<strong>

**Awesome, right? Tell me what you thought about the quote!**


	13. Bring Her Back

**I realise that it is kind of improper with all these changers in perspective...but I have to convey emotions and fill questionable parts. I can't promise that I'll stop doing it, because towards the end of the story, it probably will not even have the 'I' outside of quotation marks...unless it is a thought.**

* * *

><p>Makalaurë entered sat down by the bedside stool and took hold of Silmalir's frail hand. As if on cue, her body slightly shifted towards him, and her head slightly tilted to the left. He could only imagine what it would have felt like to be locked in a room with a greatest fear for an unbearable period of time. The words of Lady Alquasar as she exited still rung in his head.<p>

_'Bring her back.'_

He wasn't sure how to do this, but maybe softly pleading would work best.

"Silmalir," he said softly, smiling as a sigh escaped his lips. "It is time to wake up."

After the words were gently whispered, Makalaurë waited for a reaction. What he received was entirely different from what was expected. Silmalir did not open her eyes, but her fingers held firmly onto his hand.

This was going better than he thought.

"Please wake up?"

One word was heard. "_Cálë..."_

He leaned closer and whispered in her ear. "I am here..."

The pressure on his hand grew.

"_Cálë..."_

Makalaurë started to sing.

* * *

><p>I could hear whispering. It was a nice sound that passed through my body quickly. But the images of my Atar and Ammë were distorted as it tried to caress them as well. I cried out and tried to reach for them, and they tried to reach for me, but the distance was too great.<p>

_'Please wake up...'_

Was I not awake?

'_I am here...'_

I turned around foolishly, and my parents disappeared with the wind. Then, singing could be heard—a gentle, hopeful tone that sought my attention. The words I could not hear, but I did not have to. The meaning was clear.

_'Come back... Please come back... I know that you are not truly happy there. Come back...'_

I tried to pull away. Where were my parents? Did they abandon me once again?

_'Please...'_

No... I need to see them once more... I need to see their faces once more, to hear their voices clear in the air, to feel warmth and happiness that only a parent's love could provide... Please... No...

_'I am Makalaurë, Silmalir! Allow me to see your eyes one more time...'_

* * *

><p>The most amazing thing happened then. Silmalir opened her eyes a little and turned to stare at him. Makalaurë almost wanted to cry in relief and hold her tightly in his arms, to make her never do that to him again because he was so worried, and...wait. Maybe he was overreacting a little.<p>

"Makalaurë," she croaked weakly.

He immediately turned his attention to her.

"My...hand?"

Makalaurë looked down at what Silmalir was gesturing to and saw that his hand was tightly grasping her own. He immediately loosened his grip and smiled weakly at her. The corner of her mouth twitched slightly.

"You are awake," he said at last. She made to get up, but he prevented her from moving. "You shouldn't get up just yet."

"How long have I been sleeping?" she asked, leaning back against the pillow.

"An entire day, I would think."

Silmalir rolled her eyes, but she looked quite pleased. "I am glad to be awake again."

"We thought you would never open your eyes again."

"Yes; well, am I not awake now? My eyes are open, contradictory to your statement, and I am allowing you to see them one more time..."

Silmalir trailed off and settled for a widening smile. To her surprise, she found herself in the warm embrace of Makalaurë, who had buried his head into her hair. His arms wrapped around her gently, and he held her in hopes that she wouldn't suddenly disappear or fall asleep again. She hesitantly allowed her arms to raise and hug him back.

They were both shaken out of their reverie as the door opened, and Lady Alquasar entered with a tired look on her face, along with Fánamaril. At first, they both did not realise what was happening, but they saw Silmalir, conscious and eyes open.

"Silmalir!" Fánamaril cried, shoulders sagging in relief. "You're awake."

Silmalir gently tapped on Makalaurë's shoulder and pulled away. "You're awake too, Fána. Now, can I get a proper hello?" But her amusement abruptly ended when she saw Lady Alquasar. "My lady, I am sorry that I disobeyed—"

"It is of no matter any longer," Lady Alquasar cut her off. "I am glad that you are alright." She exchanged a look with Makalaurë, who had turned around when Silmalir alerted him to their presence. "Do you remember what happened?"

"Someone closed the door," Silmalir replied grimly, her eyes hardening. "On purpose."

"It was Lady Finienel, Silmalir," Fánamaril put in. "She meant to lock me inside because she thought I was the one in the storeroom. I shouldn't have let you go inside. I know how you feel about the dark."

"You are not at fault."

"But—"

"You are not."

"Alright, but—"

"Fánamaril—"

"Silmalir. I was going to say that you need to eat, and Makalaurë is distracting you," Fánamaril said firmly. "I'll go get something light to eat for you from the kitchens. Makalaurë, keep distracting her. She's easily distracted."

Silmalir felt indignant. "Hey!"

"It's true," Lady Alquasar agreed.

Makalaurë felt out of place with three Elf-maidens in the room. "Um... Should I leave?"

"No," the three said in unison.

"Oh. Alright."

* * *

><p>Afterwards, Makalaurë left the room to allow Silmalir some rest, and she was already half-unconscious at that point. He decided to go to the forge, where he knew his grandfather, father, brothers, uncles, and half-cousins would be waiting for his successful news. When he showed up, he decided to give the news a very dramatic entrance. So he sobered up and removed his smile, opening the door slowly and carefully.<p>

Almost immediately, the doorknob was taken from his hand, and the door itself was flung open in the haste to see who it was.

"Makalaurë!" Maitimo breathed in relief. "Is she..." He caught the empty expression on his face. "Makalaurë..."

Makalaurë stepped inside wordlessly and sat on the window ledge of the forge, watching the birds fly around in the sky. Arafinwë stepped up and placed a hand on his shoulder, and Finwë shook his head.

"How is she?" Fëanáro prompted carefully.

He bowed his head and grinned out of sight of the others. Then he turned around with that grin on his face. "She woke up an hour ago."

Tyelkormo went over and smacked him upside the head. "That's what you get for worrying us! You could have just said that she was awake!" Then he put a hand on his other shoulder and sighed in relief. "We knew you could do it, Makalaurë."

Makalaurë took in a deep breath. "Also, Lady Alquasar has allowed us to speak with Fánamaril and Silmalir again. So you can visit Fánamaril or something."

Maitimo walked over as well. "I think that we should do one thing before Tyelkormo goes to visit Fánamaril." He gestured to Caranthir and Findekáno, both of whom were sitting on the rug next to the stand. "They found her. We should hail them once, at least."

Finwë smiled. "After all, my grandsons are the best."

"What happened to your sons?" Nolofinwë interjected, feigning hurt.

Fëanáro rolled his eyes. "He has tossed us away like Nerdanel's choppy sculptures."

The king turned to them. "I'm sorry, but your generation is just simply overrated."

"So you are complexly overrated then, Atar?" Arafinwë retorted. "You and Ingwë both."

"Are you calling your father _old?_"

"We all know you're older than old," Fëanáro sighed, smiling. "But we love you anyway."

Finwë shook his head, amused. "I am glad to know that my sons love me. Let us praise Caranthir and Findekáno then!"

* * *

><p>"Now," said Fánamaril. "You are not to get up for the next two days. You need to eat and recover, and you may only walk if you are in dire need to go to the bathroom. In that case, you will need to ring the bell, and I will help you walk—"<p>

"Fána," interrupted Silmalir, her expression quite amused. "I am quite capable of taking care of myself. I do not need to rest for two days. In fact, I intend to get back to work tomorrow. Surely you do not expect me to just _lay_ here, doing nothing?"

Fánamaril rolled her eyes. "That's exactly what I expect you to do. Do not give me any lip, Silmalir."

It was obvious that she wasn't going to give in to Silmalir's pleading. "I do not want to stay in bed! It's too tiring to stay in bed!"

"That's why you need to stay in bed, Silmalir!"

"_Please_, Fána? I just want some freedom. A little freedom."

"You just want me to let you run around."

Silmalir quieted. Then she sighed. "Actually, yes. Please? I do not see why I have to stay in bed. I can walk perfectly fine, and if you want me to eat, I shall stuff my face right now. But I beg you; do not confine me to a bed!"

There was silence in the room, and Fánamaril crossed her arms over her chest. Then, she relented.

"Fine. Although, you have to listen to me when I say that you need to rest."

"I am not a child."

"Really? You could have fooled me."

"I am just as old as you are!"

Fánamaril plopped herself down onto the second bed and buried her face into the sheets. Silmalir relaxed as well, until she found a projectile flying towards her, aimed at her head. She caught it quickly and threw it back. Needless to say, this resulted in a full-out pillowfight, and Fánamaril was surprised to find out that Silmalir indeed could walk and balance herself on one foot without tipping over.

Of course, Silmalir only won because Fánamaril let her win.

* * *

><p><strong>~Bonding moments!<strong>

**Silmalir being obnoxious in this chapter... Fánamaril being a mother in this chapter as well...**

**The next chapter is going to be in her point of view. I promise.**

**You know what to do!**


	14. Deal Out Punishment

**Freshen up the disclaimer!**

**I do not own the Silmarillion, reference to Lord of the Rings, or the theme of Cinderella that I have so conveniently jacked up.**

* * *

><p>Finally, two weeks later, Fánamaril stopped mothering over me. At this point, Makalaurë made it a point to visit me every day, although I tried to convince him that no, I was not going to suddenly faint and shock him out of his body. Also, Maitimo and Tyelkormo occasionaly accompanied him, followed by Caranthir and Findekáno (believe it or not, they are best friends now).<p>

I now know that life can never be boring with the royal family.

Even though I had a 'near-death experience,' or so the others put it, I was still not excused from my duties. Every day, I still had to wake up early in the morning, get a start on washing those dishes, wash sheets and hang them on the clothing line for laundry purposes, eat lunch, do some more dishes, and then get a start on gathering the sheets into the basket.

That was the daily life of a guest-servant at the palace of Tirion.

Today, I had decided to visit the library to help out with the librarians, and I went alone, despite Fánamaril's protests. One of the librarians assigned me to the music section with several books, and I obediently placed them back in their spots, according to the engraved Sarati symbol on the spine. The few things that made the task hard was finding the correct place in the section, as the library and its sections were both very large.

The amount of books piled up over the years as Elves began to practice in the art of writing and illustrating, and the bookshelves were there to be filled. The library itself was remodeled only five times in the span of from its birth to now, and the ceiling reached to the third floor of the palace, also taking up one-fourth of the entire space of the palace.

There were tables arranged in a circle for every category, held for debates on a certain subject in each section, though sometimes they were simply used for inquisitive reading. The bookshelves surrounded each table, effectively cutting off certain Elves from other Elves. The arrangement of the book sections was in categories, such as politics, history, and arts. The building of the Mindon, for example, was part of the history category. It would be located under the section of 'Architecture.'

As I mentioned earlier, I was in the music section, and I had peeked through a book about music notes in general. Although I am not boring, I took a look through the long debate of whether or not it was another language, or perhaps a cast-off version of the ability to put ideas on paper.

It discouraged me from reading the other books, so I simply resumed to quickly placing the books back where they belonged.

Then I smiled as I saw who happened to be in the library at this time. For some reason, he always managed to bring a smile to my face now.

Makalaurë.

Then I saw what he was doing, and my smile all but dropped to the floor and shattered.

His elbow was propped up against the table, and he held his head up with a long, elegant hand. There was one book in my hand at this point, so I distracted myself from his position and went to the bookshelf with the plaque labeled 'History of Music.' Luckily, it was far, far away from where he was sleeping.

Eventually, the oath that I swore started to take over.

_'_Don't...do...it! You'll regret it, Silmalir!'

_But I swore..._

'Makalaurë will be mad at you for disturbing him, not to mention giving him a giant ache on the cheekbone!'

_I am bound by my oath!_

'Fine then! Bound by your oath! More like bound by your outcome of doom!'

I could not stop myself. I sidled over to the sleeping Makalaurë and watched as his chest rose and fell softly, in a rhythmic pattern. For a moment, I thought that I was so caught up in staring at him that I would forget.

Of course, when I thought about forgetting, it made me think about what I tried to forget, and in turn, I remembered the oath. My hand shot out, and I desperately grasped my wrist with my right hand.

_I. Won't. Do. It._

I did it.

I have to admit, the sound of a head slamming into the desk was enough to make me cringe at the intensity of the blow. Especially when it was Makalaurë's.

I really wish I hadn't sworn that oath.

Actually, what I really wish is that I would stop starting sentences with 'I.'

But I also wish that I hadn't sworn that oath.

Slowly, Makalaurë's head, crowned with dark hair that hid his face, rose from the table, and his hand steadied his movement. I dearly hoped that I hadn't managed to knock him senseless.

"Who...did that?" he said in a deadly quiet voice.

It wouldn't have helped to run, but...

"Me."

_Stupid! Why did you do that? You're just causing impending damnation!_

His head turned, and I saw him raise an eyebrow in either annoyance at my action or soft surprise at my outburst. Or both. I could not really discern the two emotions because everything was starting to become a blur as I thought about all the things that would happen to me; death by humiliation, death by mortification, death by doom...

Any of the choices basically resulted in a never-ending visit to Mandos. Even Lord Námo, the rock he is, would be amused by how I managed to arrive in his realm with burning shame caught in my throat.

Then I was shaken out of my thoughts as Makalaurë got up from his seat, and the soft scraping of chair against rug alerted me to my coming doom.

I'd like to say I lived a happy life...

He crossed his arms over his chest and took one step forward, and I took one step back. It continued like a cycle until I was backed into a bookshelf. I only noticed the bookshelf when I bumped into it, and I turned around abruptly to find a dead end. Traitorous bookshelf.

"Please don't kill me?" I tried, holding my hands out in front of my face in an attempt to pitifully protect myself.

Makalaurë opened his mouth to say something, but I was hyperventilating.

"I'm too young to die! I'm only three hundred and seven! Don't kill me yet..."

At this point, my ability to stare him straight in the eye was severely limited to being absorbed by the wooden floor underneath all those rugs. If I had dared to look up, I would have seen his amused facial expression. But as obvious as it was, I didn't look up.

"That hurt, you know," he said after a while.

"I'm sorry..."

"You realise that I cannot let it slide?"

"I said I was sorry..." I muttered.

"This calls for punishment," Makalaurë continued.

I looked up and glared defiantly at him, despite the fact that I was the one at fault. "Then go ahead!"

A librarian appeared from over the corner and shushed me. "Quiet!" The Elf was louder than I was.

Makalaurë grinned down at me, running a hand through his long hair. "You are so loud."

I rolled my eyes. "That is because no one would dare traipse up to one of the sons of the Prince and tell him directly that his voice, no matter how melodious, was too loud."

"I am a son of the Prince. I have that right."

"The right to be arrogant?" I dared to say.

"The right to be as loud as I want to."

"Just because you sing..."

His grin threatened to split his mouth. "Don't forget playing the harp, playing the flute..."

This added to the list of qualities that I had gathered up for him. "Right, right. Did you miss anything else?"

"Playing a smaller harp..."

I opened my mouth in protest. "That's the same thing as a harp. It doesn't count. At all. I could say that I...can shoot an arrow and a smaller arrow. It doesn't count, because it falls under the category of archery."

"Can you shoot an arrow?"

"...No."

Makalaurë smirked. "Precisely." Then the smirk was replaced with a softer smile. "I remember when Maitimo tried to nock a sword to his bow. He pulled the string and pommel back, and though he didn't exactly succeed in hitting the target, he did manage to slice open his hand and break the bowstring. Atar was extremely annoyed at the fact that I was sitting under the tree, watching as Maitimo tried to do it."

Right. "So you're not going to kill me then?" I asked hopefully.

He looked up at the ceiling and put a lopsided smile on. "Whenever you get mad at me, I shall bring it up."

So he was going to use it against me when I least expected it then. This was a new turn of events. I was going to survive the day, but there would be one day when I would have to suffer a crushing defeat.

"I'd rather you deal out penance right now," I said weakly.

He leaned closer so our noses were almost touching. His grin was back, and it almost scared me. _Almost._ Then he tilted his head slightly to the left and leaned forward to whisper in my ear.

Then Makalaurë pulled back and walked away, taking his book with him and whistling merrily. His hair, with the braids coming undone, was captivating. But I thought about what he whispered.

* * *

><p>"No one tried to lock you into a storeroom today," Fánamaril observed.<p>

"They didn't try to lock me in a closet either," I replied cheerfully, plopping onto the feathery soft bed. I let out a huge yawn, and my head dropped onto the pillow. "I am so tired..."

She raised an eyebrow. "I didn't know sorting books could be so wearisome," she commented cheekily.

"Cheeky little plant," I muttered. "It was because I tried to fight against the promise."

"Oh? Who was the unfortunate Elf?"

I probably blushed to the tips of my ears. "No one!" I squeaked.

"No one?"

"No one."

"Did you forget the other promise? Recite it."

I almost groaned. "I promise to tell who it is that has been the target." Then I tried to bury my head in my pillow as I mumbled his name. "Makalaurë. It was him. It was Makalaurë."

Fánamaril grinned. "Well then. I guess the oath is pretty strong if it can even force you to do it to _Makalaurë._"

I shook my head as she blew out two candles. To my thankfulness, she left the candle on my bedside table alone. I still had not recovered from the swarm of darkness, and I don't think I intended to. My thoughts flew in all sorts of different directions when she extinguished the flames, and one thought remained when I fell asleep with my eyes partially open.

_'No.'_

* * *

><p><strong>If you didn't realise it... 'No' is what Makalaurë whispered in Silmalir's ear. So it kind of ruins the entire 'Ooh, that's so handsomely dramatic!' thing I was going for.<br>Oh, and don't understimate oaths. They are actually very strong, and proof of that is with Maedhros, Maglor, Celegorm, Caranthir, Curufin, Amrod, and Amras. But most significantly with Maedhros and Maglor. And Maglor.**

**(* *)  
>V<strong>


	15. Avoiding Her For The Best

**This chapter may not be as adequate as the others...but I hope you'll read it all the same.**

* * *

><p>Makalaurë was beginning to think that there was something wrong with him. He couldn't seem to think straight anymore, and he started to feel increasingly jumpy around anyone he didn't know (not that he already wasn't).<p>

Right now, the four sons of Fëanáro strolled through the gardens, and Makalaurë was really beginning to wonder if he was alright.

"Tyelkormo," Makalaurë said hesistantly.

His brother turned to face him. "Yes?"

Makalaurë took in a deep breath. "I think there's something wrong with me."

His confession was rewarded with laughing, even more laughing, snickering, and then simple hiccups as the noise died away. He distinctly wondered if there was something wrong with Tyelkormo... Oh wait. Everything was wrong with him.

But his patience was running thin. "Why are you laughing?"

"Because..." Tyelkormo said, smiling goofily. "You finally..._hic_...admitted..._hic_...it."

Makalaurë growled. "Shut up."

This only served to send Tyelkormo into another round of laughter. He sighed, shaking his head with affection for his younger brother, and continued walking down the dirt path, ignoring the peals of laughter.

* * *

><p>Eventually, the four split up into pairs of two, with Maitimo and Caranthir, and Makalaurë and Tyelkormo. The latter went back into the palace, both ready to go their separate ways, when suddenly, Silmalir and Fánamaril appeared around the corner. They seemed to be talking about something that embarrassed Silmalir, for her cheeks were slightly pink.<p>

Tyelkormo made his way over to them, but Makalaurë stopped dead with an abrupt realisation.

_It was her all along..._

He turned around so they wouldn't see his face and walked away quickly, hoping not to gather their attention. His thoughts were filled with dread and apprehension as he thought about what this meant. What would happen.

When Tyelkormo turned around, he found that Makalaurë was already gone, and Silmalir, who noticed from the beginning, said nothing. Makalaurë silently walked back to his rooms, thinking about how it had suddenly escalated into something completely different from what he had intended. From what should have happened instead of this.

Thoughts of yesterday ran through his head again, how he had been jolted awake from his sleep. That really put things into perspective then, but it couldn't have started from there... Affection. Is that what the cursed emotion was called? Affection? A bubbling sensation that started from the stomach and worked its way up to spread the feeling throughout the blood and body? By the Valar, he was riddled with it. Even his hands tingled with the thought of..._her_.

But Makalaurë wasn't going to do anything about it... Not when she looked up to him like an elder brother. Especially not when Silmalir was... Well..._herself_. It was simply just wrong.

Then why did she speak to him about her Light? The Light that she sought for in a guardian?

Perhaps...if he avoided her for a while, to shake his mind clear of these thoughts, it would eventually fade away.

After all, there were many people in the palace that he could talk to, not to mention his own family. Even though it didn't appeal to him to much to speak with his Atar about certain situations like this, he would understand, because it was probably the way he felt when he first realised 'it.' Hopefully.

Still, it was frustrating to think about it, and Makalaurë brought his palm down upon the railing of the balustrade, sighing. He was lost in thought for quite a while until a voice startled him out of his reverie.

"Thinking about something?"

"I think about many things, Uncle," he sighed.

Arafinwë stepped out from behind the wall's shadow and smiled at his half-brother's son. "Young Elves often have wandering minds, but you seem even more distracted than your father was at your age. He would think about things from time to time, and no one ever knew what was in that great masterpiece of a mind that he possessed."

"No one even knows now," he replied.

His uncle raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Not even Nerdanel?"

Makalaurë shrugged. "Atar's mind is a vast forest of ideas, and trees to help root them to reality. I don't think even the craftiest Elf could surpass him in skill." As if subconsciously, he added, "But Atar is Atar, and I wouldn't change him one bit."

"It seems that you are changing though," Arafinwë said. "Normally, you would notice my presence."

_I would?_ "Ah. I was distracted. That does not count. But...do I normally notice your presence?"

Arafinwë's mouth split into a smile. "No, you do not, but you would not usually allow me to throw you off your train of thought. You must be very distracted indeed, if you are unable to keep up with your own personality."

"I don't know what to do, Uncle. I don't think I can tell you, or anyone, for that matter. It's too complicated."

"Try me."

"Alright. I—"

"Makalaurë, there you are!"

_Why is it that just when I try to get therapy, it always ends up with an interruption?_ he thought irritably. _Then when I actually succeed in telling someone, that someone ends up laughing at my problems. That isn't really fair._

"Tyelkormo," Makalaurë greeted. "What brings you here?"

"That's my line, you unforgiving prig."

"Why are you suddenly insulting me?"

"So you can get yourself back together!"

"Why am I an unforgiving prig again? If anything, I should be telling you off for laughing at me this morning!"

"Hey, I'm your brother! I'm allowed to laugh at you any time of the day, any time of the season, any time of the year. You, however, are not allowed to—" Tyelkormo was cut off by their uncle clearing his throat.

Arafinwë shook his head in silent resignation and amusement. "I shall leave you two to your banter. Do not be late for dinner." Dinner was by far the last thing on Makalaurë's mind. After their uncle left, the two continued.

"Anyways," Tyelkormo said. "You're an unforgiving prig because you won't forget about what happened in the library." Makalaurë gave him a blank look, but he mistook it for trying to be innocent. "You know what I am trying to say! Silmalir told me what happeed, and it was just a small thing. How can you just let that—"

"What are you _talking_ about?" Makalaurë asked. "I'm confused. What do you mean 'what happened in the library?'"

"What do _you_ mean?"

"I mean that I do not comprehend what you are trying to get me to comprehend, if that wasn't obvious enough. What are you trying to get at, Tyelkormo?" Makalaurë asked impatiently.

"I _mean_ that just because Silmalir took your elbow out from under you and caused you to hurt your face does not mean that you should avoid her altogether," he replied. "Besides..."

"Besides," Makalaurë repeated. "_Besides_, I am not trying to avoid her altogether. I am not angry at her either. Where in the world did you get that idea?"

Tyelkormo was confused. "You aren't avoiding her?"

"No."

"Then...why did you walk away?"

"Because I remembered that I had something to do."

"Really?" Tyelkormo's eyes were narrowed in suspicion at the lie, as if he didn't completely believe it. Makalaurë wouldn't be surprised if Tyelkormo didn't believe it too. He was never a good liar. "You remembered you had something else to do?"

"Tyelkormo," Makalaurë said slowly, a smile creeping onto his face. "Some Elves, unlike you, actually have something else to do in their lives other than walking around in gardens and lazily gazing at stars. You realise that, right?"

Tyelkormo snorted. "Please, Makalaurë. You went out of your way to visit Silmalir every hour of the day last week, to the point where I think she would have been—no, _should_ have been driven insane, had it not been for the fact that both of you just can't stand a day without each other's company."

"That is not true!" Makalaurë protested. "I didn't see her the week before."

"She was either missing or you weren't allowed to see her," he pointed out. "And either way, you were thinking about her."

"I was not."

A light eyebrow was raised. "Oh?"

One mouth curved into a grimace. "Okay, maybe I _was..._ But not all the time. I promise. It wasn't all the time. Why did you come here anyway?"

Tyelkormo leaned against one of the beams and crossed his arms over his chest. "Well, there are _more_ guests arriving in the palace—hey, don't look at me like that. Anyways, there are more guests arriving in the palace, and apparently we have to go greet them. Like last time."

Makalaurë grimaced as he remembered walking down the stairs in those stiff robes, resisting the urge to pull them up and scratch at his irritated skin, and then the looks on the faces of the guests as they stared at his frown. Then he recalled having to force politeness into his voice and not just flat sarcasm, to which he was further discouraged by his Ammë, who had gave him a pointed look.

No, he did not like public events. He didn't appreciate it too much when he had been invited to Uncle Arafinwë's wedding.

"Like _last_ time?" Makalaurë echoed. "I don't want anything to happen like _last_ time." They both winced when they remembered what happened a week ago. "Do I have to go? As in, Atar and Ammë would beg me?"

"It would be nice if you did, Makalaurë. I think they are staying for quite a long time."

Makalaurë closed his eyes. "I suppose I have to go then. I'll explain later to Silmalir that I am _not_ avoiding her... Females jump to so many conclusions at one time, and those conclusions always have themselves in the worst light possible..." He continued his muttering as he strode down the hallway, and Tyelkormo followed, shaking his head.

* * *

><p>I will admit that it slightly hurt when Makalaurë walked away without saying hi. Right when he arrived. My mind wandered guiltily back to yesterday, and the incident that followed after that incident. I still hadn't forgiven the bookshelf.<p>

Immediately, I thought that he was avoiding me. He probably felt a blinding pain whenever he saw me. Of course, I didn't say anything, plainly because I didn't want anything unnecessary to happen. Then Tyelkormo left to find his brother after I voiced my worries, which was after he wondered where Makalaurë was, which was right after Fánamaril so nonchalantly brought up the subject of his absence.

Now, I made my way through the crowd of servants surrounding the main entrance hall, tending to this, tending to that, and as I managed to near the grand staircase, a sight that I never expected to see had met my eyes: Makalaurë, seeming to talk animatedly with one of the Elf-ladies. She was quite beautiful, like many of the Eldar, and her hair shone silvery white and eyes glittered cerulean blue.

For some reason, I felt a bitter taste on my tongue, and even worse—I thought maybe he wasn't just avoiding me because of what happened yesterday. I could not see his face just yet, but I knew that he would be smiling, and though I loved to see him smile, I just felt slightly a little bit more satisfied when it was I that provoked it.

I know I shouldn't be thinking such selfish thoughts, but I couldn't help it. I couldn't help but watch as the situation in my mind got out of control, but to spare myself of the agony, I turned on my heel and marched stiffly up the stairs.

Avoiding me...was exactly what he was resorting to, just to tell me that he knew.

Makalaurë knew that it was getting out of hand, and he had to stop it, so he went to the only method he could.

To think that it all started because of yesterday... Was he trying to punish me now?

* * *

><p><strong>Hmm... Makalaurë's thoughts almost seem...messy. Then again...messy is exactly how I wanted it.<br>I hope I wasn't too blatant with what I was trying to show... Or too obscure. You'll find out what I made Silmalir babble about.**

**( * * )  
>V<strong>


	16. The Tree That I Hate With An Utmost Hate

**Surprise for my precious little readers at the end!  
>(And don't skip down to it, because I WILL KNOW. Because I actually won't, but I'm trying to pretend that I will to intimidate you into not doing it. Which probably isn't working.)<strong>

**So...I'm assuming that you want to start reading now.**

**Sorry. :)**

* * *

><p>He continued to avoid me.<p>

You know who I am speaking of.

I thought that it might have been because of the incident, but upon deeper thought, I realised that it might have been because of me in general. Perhaps I was simply too unpredictable at times, or I was just too predictable, easy to read. Perhaps it was because I held no interest for him anymore when he realised that my place in the world was simply a bird knocked off of its rightful perch.

No, Makalaurë did not think like that. I knew that much about him, but it seemed that I didn't not know enough.

He told me himself that he did not like to attend public events.

Yet he looked so comfortable and _natural_, speaking to any guests with ease.

Or maybe it was just because of _who_ he was talking to.

I would have much rathered he spoke to Aicelen or Lohtilin, or even Lady Alquasar herself. Although, my views started to change on Lady Alquasar. She did care for me, after all, as I was the living memory of my father. Aicelen and Lohtilin changed as well, and though they teased me at some times, I couldn't help but feel a friendly feeling that they gave off.

But I digress.

There was the likely option that I adamantly held onto the past (which was one week ago, mind you), or the less likely and more shocking realisation that he had lied to me. I definitely preferred the former.

Still, that did not justify his avoiding me. I will admit that it hurt a little, but I thought he had important matters to tend to. One look at the situation made any foolish lie that I had told myself shatter to a million pieces, and I felt my fingers tingle as I tried to pick up the pieces...and failed.

I will also admit that even though I was past my majority and matured, I was childish. As if automatically, I decided to avoid him as well, except willingly this time. If he wanted to see me no longer, then I would grant him his wish.

"Silmalir!"

Fánamaril's voice shocked me out of my daydreaming, and I stopped short just before hitting a beam that was placed so conveniently before me. There were many places in the palace that I did not yet explore, but I did not find reason in placing an unjustified _pillar_ in the middle of a _room_... Oh.

I realised that I had veered off path and managed to walk along the side, while normal Elves would have walked through the middle.

"That was _not_ there before," I declared, moving out of the way and joining Fánamaril again. "I would have seen it if it—"

"You didn't see it."

I allowed myself to sigh and my shoulders to slump. "No, I didn't," I admitted glumly. "I was busy thinking about something else."

"Like how you should watch out for anything in your way because it's _common sense?_"

A grimace made its way onto my face. "No. I wasn't thinking about anything that was in my way." After speaking the sentence, I winced at how it could have been taken. '_I wasn't thinking about anything that was _in my way.' I quickly amended it. "Anything that would jump in front of me suddenly and nearly meet my face in the kiss of death," I amended.

She rolled her eyes, but smiled. "I was thinking that maybe we could have a picnic today. There are many more servants coming in with their own Elf-lords and Elf-ladies—" she pointedly ignored the face that I made at _their own Elf-lords_, "—so we will be able to take a break. Perhaps the fresh air will allow some common sense to enter your head."

I frowned. "Outside..."

"Yes. Maybe we could invite Caranthir and his brothers as well."

_I said I was going to avoid him, but everyone just wants to conspire against me, don't they? _"I think I shall pass on that offer. I do not like the idea of fresh air allowing common sense into my head. You love my antics too much to do that to me, Fána."

"I thought you loved nature, you tree-hugger."

"All the Eldar are tree-huggers," I pointed out.

Fána looked disappointed at my declination, but she refused to be put out. "Will you at least join us for a _little_ while?" All the while, she gave me a half-hopeful smile that made her dimples more prominent. Elves should not be allowed to be so..._cute_. "Just a little while, and then you can go off by yourself. But just a little while. Please?"

I liked to think of it as payback for that day at the stables when I had pleaded with her. "I... You... But..." It was obvious that I wasn't going to win this one, no matter how hard I tried to resist.

"Fine," I relented. "Only for a while." Then, my mind had a brilliant idea. It was so brilliant that I almost wanted to cackle like an evil witch. "You won't mind if I wear a tunic and pants, would you?"

"That isn't proper lady-like dress!" she protested.

I knew she was right, and I didn't fancy wearing pants either, or a rough tunic, for that matter, but added to my plans. "I'll stay if you let me."

"Fine."

* * *

><p>After I changed into some uncomfortable clothing, Fánamaril escorted (dragged) me outside, large basket in hand. She forced a large blanket into my hand as well, and I mentally calculated the amount of Elves that could fit on this one blanket, with space left behind for the table setting. Or blanket setting. The food, you know.<p>

She found the perfect place for a picnic—and escape—under two trees that jutted out from the other trees. I helped her unfold the blanket and flung it over the grass, watching as it floated down into...disarray.

"That never works," Fána mused, putting down a loaf of bread and helping straighten the sheet. "I wonder why."

I shrugged; it was true. That never did work. On all of the picnics that I had ever been on, I tried to do the exact same thing. And it ended up the exact same way. Was it because I did it wrong? Because I am very sure of myself that there is no wrong way to spread out a blanket.

We finished setting up the picnic and placing the food in arrangements, but I wondered who Fánamaril actually invited. Of course, I tried to resist asking, to show that it didn't concern me and I didn't care, but still...

"Who did you invite, Fána?" I asked, curiosity getting the best of me.

"Caranthir, Maitimo, Makalaurë, and Tyelkormo," she replied. "I told them that they could bring anyone they want—what's wrong?"

_Eru help me... Makalaurë would probably bring his new lady-friend with him... _"Oh, nothing. I was just wondering if we had enough food for all of them, if they were going to bring guests."

Fána shook her head in amusement. "As far as I know, Caranthir invited Findekáno."

I sighed and sauntered over to take a small wrapped package of raisins out of the basket. "I do hope none of them like raisins."

"Only you like to eat those shriveled things. Only you."

I put the string of the package between my teeth and started to climb, tentatively, up the tree on the left. "Please," I said through my teeth. "Raisins taste fine. And they are convenient to take on travels when I get hungry."

"I pity your journeying companion. The look on his face when he sees that you've only packed raisins as rations."

"Oh, you should have seen the look on Lady Alquasar's face when I only packed raisins for this one trip to..." I trailed off when I found a decent place to sit in the tree. The thick, sturdy branch protruded parallel to the ground, and it was the height of my hand upraised as I stood. I boosted myself onto the place and swung myself onto the branch.

Fánamaril stared at me, as if contemplating whether or not to shake me down from the tree. "Is that why you wanted to wear pants? So you could sit in a tree?"

"Yes," I admitted.

She let out a huge sigh. "I suppose I can't argue with you; it is indecent to show the insides of your skirt or dress."

I leaned back against the tree, nodding in agreement. To Fánamaril's annoyance, I was eating raisins at the pace of Nessa's running. _One_ raisin per minute. I promise. On cue, five Finwions appeared from nowhere. I put another raisin into my mouth.

"Hello!" Fánamaril greeted them cheerfully. "I see all of you made it."

I watched through the trees and saw Maitimo smile.

"Of course we did," Makalaurë replied. The rising feeling of hope made me feel stupid.

"Where's Silmalir?" Caranthir asked. Findekáno nodded in agreement.

Fánamaril opened her mouth to betray my position, but I threw a raisin at her. She turned around and shot me a glare, and Maitimo, Makalaurë, and Tyelkormo followed her gaze. Thankfully, I wore something that blended in with the tree. However, Caranthir and Findekáno stared expectantly at her, waiting for a reply.

"Well," she said, gritting her teeth. "Silmalir is around here somewhere. She will soon come dow—back."

"Really? Where did she go?"

"Who knows? She's a little paranoid."

I threw another raisin at her, but it missed when she stepped out of the way and landed in front of Findekáno. Immediately, the elfling picked it up and examined it. He turned to Caranthir with an unreadable expression on his little face.

"The squirrels are throwing raisins at us."

Maitimo chuckled and went over to the other tree, climbing up with no sweat. Sadly, there was a branch similar to the one that I sat on, and he decided to occupy that one for the time being. When he seated himself comfortably on the branch, he raised an eyebrow at the unwrapped package of raisins in my hand.

I grinned at him. "Want some?" I asked, extending my arm.

He took a handful and leaned against the tree as well, putting one hesitantly into his mouth. Then he took one and, with speed that not even lightning could match, flung it at Makalaurë.

"Maitimo, I will slaughter you."

I turned to Maitimo, raising _my_ eyebrow this time. I mouthed the words, 'How did he know it was you?'

He shrugged. "Makalaurë has his ways."

I rolled my eyes, thinking that Makalaurë had a lot of _his_ ways. Just to be sure, I took a raisin and threw it at Makalaurë.

"Silmalir, just because you are sitting in a tree does not mean I will not push you out of it. Throw it at Tyelkormo."

In unison, two voices echoed the same sentence: "Silmalir is in the tree?"

"Correct," Fánamaril confirmed.

"Blew my cover, Makalaurë," I muttered, but I smiled good-naturedly (despite my wishes), throwing another raisin at him. To my intense annoyance and admiration, he caught it in his mouth and ate it.

Before spitting it out and making a face.

He coughed. "What in Aman is _in_ those things?"

"Shriveled grape," I replied.

To my alarm, I felt something grasp the arm that hung limply by my side. Then I looked down and saw it was Caranthir, climbing up the same tree. I pulled him up into my lap and handed him a raisin, which he threw at Maitimo.

Maitimo was leaning over the branch, hands obscured by the leavers. The raisin hit his ankle, but he ignored it and pulled Findekáno up into his own lap.

"Quite a view from up here," Caranthir piped up.

I nodded and threw a raisin at Tyelkormo. He ignored it, with some restraint (I noted as I watched his hand curl into a fist), and continued to talk with Makalaurë and Fánamaril about how raisins should be _banned_ from Tirion because somebody wouldn't stop using them as projectiles. He did not mention my name, and I decided to stop throwing raisins.

Of course, I kept a handful for Caranthir and gave the rest to Maitimo and Findekáno, who continued to use them as weapons. Maitimo aimed at Tyelkormo again, and I watched as the raisin swiveled in the air, soaring gracefully...continuously falling...and the bare whisper of the wind as it cut through. Then it landed in a glass of water that Fánamaril so kindly provided for Tyelkormo, and I resisted the urge to snicker at Maitimo.

Just in time, he picked it up and was about to put the rim of the glass to his mouth when Makalaurë's hand shot out and pushed the cup—yes, he actually pushed the cup—out of Tyelkormo's hand. We all watched in painful silence as the glass fell...and fell...and some of the water splashed the front of Tyelkormo's tunic. I stared in amazement as the grass was watered, and Fánamaril moved her skirts from the sodden blanket.

"Makalaurë..." Tyelkormo said in a deadly voice.

Said Elf grinned. "There was a raisin in your water."

Tyelkormo peeled off his tunic, revealing an undershirt. "A raisin. In my water. You found a reason to drench me like the _raisin_?"

"If you put it that way..."

I couldn't help but smile at Makalaurë's words. Then I started to laugh, unable to hold it in, and Maitimo chuckled with me. Oh Valar...

"I'll commit a kinslaying right now," Tyelkormo growled. "I'll do it."

"You wouldn't kill me, Tyelkormo. You couldn't."

"Try me."

I stopped laughing (but giggling was different), and Caranthir jumped down from the tree to make sure that his brother really wouldn't kill his other brother. Maitimo shook his head in amusement, knowing that it was because of him that it had happened. Fána's expression was a cross between shock and amusement. I clutched my sides in case they split.

Tyelkormo got up from his spot, and Makalaurë stood as well. They were at the same height, really, and I didn't know who looked more intimidating: Tyelkormo or Makalaurë. Really, all I did was look on helplessly as they stared each other down.

"Maybe we should go back inside," Fána said, finally deciding to be the voice of reason. She obviously thought that Tyelkormo would really kill his brother. "It's getting hot, and—"

"It is?" I piped up, earning myself a glare.

"_And_ Silmalir and I have things to do. So, we should go back inside, like I said before," she finished, her stare telling us that this conversation was not open for debate. At all.

I sighed, realising that the fun was ruined. "I suppose... Let's go then."

Maitimo carefully helped Findekáno to the ground and stood up on the branch. I stood up too, eyeing the distance from the branch to the ground. He hopped down (do Elves hop?) gracefully, landing on his feet. When he looked up at me, I stuck my tongue out at him, feeling a little...ungraceful. His facial expression clearly asked whether or not I needed help.

Silmalir. Does. Not. Need. Help.

But of course, I still should have seen it coming.

I gasped as my foot slipped, and I began my ungraceful descent to the grass.

Makalaurë didn't have to push me out of the tree after all.

* * *

><p><strong>Don't you just love the torture I put you through? Making you firmly gape at the last sentence of this chapter...<br>I don't even have to say 'Crucio...'  
>By the way, I saw the Deathly Hallows Part 2, and it was such a bully, making me cry.<br>I will only elaborate on one thing: The look on Hagrid's face as he brought Harry back to the castle.**

**( * * )  
>V<strong>


	17. Afraid Of Losing Someone

**Grr! I can't type today! I keep slipping up on the keys!**

**If you see any odd words like 'gonig' or 'peronsality' or 'alotgether,' do not freak. It is 'going, personality, and altogether,' respectively. And because of these grammatical errors, I have officially lost the drive to push to the two-thousand mark. I just don't do failure, and if it happens, I might as well fail in everything. **

**I am sincerely sorry for my stupid fingers.**

**I apologise for my messed up mind.**

* * *

><p><em>Makalaurë didn't have to push me out of the tree after all.<em>

I would like to say that I laughed mentally in the face of my impending doom, but really, I was screaming on the inside, repeating '_Valar, Valar, Valar, Valar, Valar, Valar, Valar, Valar, Valar, Valar!' _like a sick chant. It took me quite a while to realise that I wasn't falling anymore, and my fingers were curled tightly around fabric. I had closed my eyes on the way down—why would I even bother to stare at my death?—and I didn't really have an incentive to open them.

Until his voice said it very slowly, from next to my ear;

"Open your eyes, Silmalir."

My mouth thinned. "If I find myself in the Halls of Waiting..." I let the sentence hang on that one phrase.

There was chuckling. "I promise that you are not dead. Open your eyes."

I opened them unwillingly and immediately regretted opening them. I shut my eyes again, and the image of Makalaurë's handsome face, _in close proximity_, burned into my mind and allowed a searing heat to light my cheeks—of course it had to be him that caught me. Of course. Not Tyelkormo, the one closest to my tree, or Maitimo, who had offered to help me, or even Caranthir and Findekáno combined, two elflings with hearts lighter than the Two Trees, but _him_, the one that avoided me, and vice versa. Why, why, why, why, _why_?

"Open your eyes?" his voice whispered.

I shook my head. Then I felt a slight rocking movement, and I realised that he was walking. Hoping that he wasn't heading towards the palace, I cracked my eyes open just a peek, catching sight of his stunning ears (I have an odd fetish), and in the view past his dark hair, I saw it. So he was intending to flat-out embarrass me then. What a practical approach.

I guess you could say that my eyes were open pretty wide then. "Put me down!"

He turned to look at me, and for a moment, I noted that our noses were almost touching. "So now you open your eyes?"

"Put me down, Kanafinwë Makalaurë." Makalaurë titled his head slightly away, giving me that crooked smile...that I couldn't possibly stay mad at...or annoyed at...or anything negative, really. "I am being serious."

His smile grew more prominent, and at that point, I wondered where Fánamaril and the others were.

"Where are the others?"

"Up there," he replied nonchalantly. He was still walking, and we were still nearing the palace. "They decided to walk quickly, but I couldn't risk the factor of tripping and dropping you..."

"It's not like you haven't done it before," I muttered. Makalaurë's expressions suddenly turned sober, and I briefly thought he was going to put me down, probably so his thoughts wouldn't be occupied with me. I wasn't about to discourage it. "Put me down. I want to walk..."

"Really? You are holding on so tightly that your knuckles are turning white, Silmalir. Are you absolutely sure you want to walk?"

I tore away from his gaze and stared at my fingers, those traitorous fingers that had achieved a firm hold on his tunic. Reluctantly, I allowed them to relax slowly, and the fabric of the tunic remained crumpled from my grasp. Then I tapped on his shoulder and told him to put me down. He sighed and obliged, and I felt almost relieved to be free of his arms.

But unwilling.

Definitely unwilling.

"You know," he said quietly, "I'm not avoiding you." Did he suddenly acquire the amazingly annoying skill of prying through someone's thoughts?

I faked a nonchalant expression. "What made you think that I thought you were avoiding me?"

"Tyelkormo told me." Of course he did. "But you should know that I am definitely not trying to spend less time with you."

"So when you walked away..."

"I remembered I had something to do." So the truth comes out.

Or not. There was something about how his hand slightly shook at his sides that alerted me to his response. He wasn't completely lying, but what he said wasn't all full-out in worship of honesty either. And now, I wasn't so sure of what I was going to do, now that I had no reason to avoid him.

"You can tell me why you left so suddenly," I said calmly, gently, trying to reassure him that I would not run off after he did. "I know that you didn't just remember that you had something to do."

There was a cold wall between us, despite the fact that we walked with our shoulders almost touching. I felt annoyed a little that I was slightly shorter than him, and it added to the list of emotions that I did not need to encounter right now. Makalaurë seemed to have changed during the duration of last week, and his visits had become shorter and shorter with each day.

Then, yesterday, he avoided me altogether. Now, he was telling me that he wasn't avoiding me at all, and I stupidly told him to tell me why he had left. To add to that, he still hadn't responded, and I felt a little nervous to his response.

"I...can't tell you," he admitted after some while.

"You don't want to tell me." This was confirmed by a timid nod, and a ducking of the head. I surprised myself by being mature. "You don't have to tell me. I won't pry if you feel uncomfortable."

Makalaurë looked up, blinking. For a moment, I caught him off guard, and his eyes were filled with an odd fear. As if afraid of losing something. Or someone. I stared into his eyes, causing both of us to stop walking, and I tried to distinguish each emotion in those pools of blue. Then he broke the stare by turning away without another word.

"We should get back to the palace," he said.

With an unspoken agreement, we both began to walk.

* * *

><p>I had gone straight to the kitchens to help when Fiondo waved me off. Then I had no place to go but my quarters, where I could think properly.<p>

After entering, I closed the door quietly and went to sit down on the window ledge. The window permitted me an overlook on the city (it was the third floor), and I smiled appreciatively. Then my overactive mind switched to the conversation that we had. I winced as I realised how quickly it turned from light to tensional. It used to be so easy, carrying on a conversation with him. He was easy to talk to from the first day in the banquet hall.

I immediately jumped to conclusions, as I would have in any unfavorable situation. What if he knew I adored him? What if he knew that I adored him very much so, that he was my Light, my anchor to happiness? What if he saw it through every smile he provoked, and he knew it had to stop?

And what if he held affection for another? Was my love doomed to be unrequited, never to be a flower in blossom, but a simple bud that did not survive through the winter? I allowed myself a sigh and went over to the bed, burying my head into the soft pillow. Perhaps I was just being dramatic. Images of him talking with the Elf-lady flashed through my head, and I gritted my teeth, audible against the pillow.

It was not because of the images, but because of the thoughts that I had when I saw them. I treated Makalaurë as if he were mine, and it made me feel so shallow.

I turned and faced the ceiling, unable to stay still.

'_I'd rather you deal out penance right now...'_

_He had smiled and whispered in my ear, 'No.'_

In the end, we were only friends after all.

It didn't feel right, demanding more.

Especially not from the one whose friendship I valued very much.

* * *

><p><strong>When I saw that I hadn't updated since four days ago, I dropped the laptop in shock! Literally. I'm sorry guys; lots of things on my mind.<br>Oh well. No new names _yet_, but if you're itching to know who the lady Makalaurë was speaking to, you'll find out soon enough.**

And...I realise that the script up there is very...erratic, but Silmalir's thoughts tend to be exceedingly...exaggerated.

**Now that all of that stuff is over... Here's a teaser from the next chapter. I know that the idea of teasing people with quotes isn't very original, but it's to throw you a line, nonetheless.**

And here it is, from Silmalir to Fánamaril: _"Fána, calm down. It's just a little blood." I looked down at my arms again, and that's when I started to feel a stinging, burning feeling. "Okay, maybe it's starting to hurt now. Is it supposed to feel like it stings?"_

**( * * )  
>V<strong>


	18. Reaction to Blood

**I wrote this while I was high on POWERADE, and it was quite odd to find out that I wrote a sober character when I was all hyped up.  
>Or a not-so-sober character. :)<strong>

* * *

><p>I never thought it was possible to hurt so much over one person, to want to tear my heart out so I would not feel the pain on every beat. It was not grief, but rather a heartbroken feeling that had taken over, making my actions mechanical and my expressions bland. Fánamaril noticed, but did not say anything, to my relief, and I continued to strive throughout the day, ignoring everyone else around me.<p>

No one commented on my lack of energy and enthusiasm, or my lack of protest. I would not call it depression either. I would deny anything that involved me diagnosed with depression, because I knew that I was absolutely _not_ depressed. It scared me to think that I was; that an Elf would become depressed. Elves generally loved everything in nature, and they were cheerful and merry because of the things they saw. But if I were depressed, then why would I hurt? I did not ask for this. I did not ask to be a puppet in the hands of fate.

"Silmalir, do you mind getting the papers that I left in the kitchen?" Fiondo asked.

For a moment, I was struck dumb with nothing to say, as usual. Then I simply nodded and walked back to the kitchen and brought the papers back without a sound. Fiondo didn't expect me to be so quiet, I knew, so she jumped a little when the papers were suddenly dropped into her hands. Before she could say anything though, I went back to mopping the floor of the banquet hall, eyes trained on the shining floor.

After a while of silence, Fiondo finally said, "The floor shines almost as bright as Varda's stars, Silmalir. You are excused from your duties now."

She most likely expected a triumphant 'YES!' or a sigh of relief, but I did not have any intention of exerting excitement. I returned the mop and bucket to the storage room outside, dumping out the dirty water. Other Elves passed me, and they did not pay attention to me as I did not pay attention to them.

And then I felt a tugging on my sleeve. I looked down and saw a little child, and he blinked when he saw my face.

"Hello," I said softly, and I internally grimaced when I realised how monotonous my tone was. "Who are you?"

"Findaráto," he replied, giving me a big toothy smile. "Why do you look like that?"

_Look like what?_ I bent down and gave him a puzzled look. "What do you mean, little one?"

Findaráto frowned. "You look sad. I don't want you to look sad." This child was able to see past the lies I told then. "My Atar says that no one should look sad on such a beautiful day."

I smiled. "I am not sad, little one. I am simply a little put off. But I am glad that you do not want me to look sad. Where are your parents?"

He pouted, and I found my heart melting. "Well...Atar is busy with my uncles, and Ammë is with my aunt Lady Nerdanel. So I decided to explore the palace because I was bored, and everyone else was busy."

Son of Arafinwë. "Ah. What about your cousins?"

Upon this, Findaráto's face lit up. "Oh! I forgot! Would you take me to them? Please?" I didn't even need him to beg; he had my empty shell wrapped around his finger. I nodded, and he smiled. "Thank you!"

* * *

><p>Afterwards, I did not stay when I led Findaráto to Caranthir and Findekáno. They welcomed him excitedly, and the three elflings set out to wreak havoc. I knew that I should have cared or tried to prevent it, but I did not. I could not find the strength to either, despite my earlier happiness at little Findaráto's company. Without something to do, I simply returned to my rooms.<p>

Fánamaril was waiting for me outside, her set of keys around her finger. She fixed me with a stern look, inspecting my appearance.

"You locked the door," I said without any conviction, simply confirming what was true.

She was not fazed by my random statement. "Yes. I did lock the door. You were not planning to stay in there _all_ day, were you?"

"No..."

"Liar. You were always bad at lying. Now come on; we are going for a walk through the gardens."

I didn't see how this was appealing. "What's the point of walking through the gardens?"

"It's healthy."

"I'd rather be unhealthy."

"Silmalir, you used to love walking through the gardens, and even to the horse stables if I would allow it. What happened to that? Why are you suddenly moping around every day for this past week? Is it because you aren't spending enough time with Makalaurë?"

I felt a nail drive itself into my chest when his name was spoken. "No," I said through my gritted teeth. "It is because I am tired. I'm sure it will pass sooner or later, but for now, I would like to rest in my room."

Fánamaril shook her head. "You are not allowed to mope in your room. Today is such a beautiful day, and we are going to walk through the gardens. I don't like seeing you so..._depressed_. Yes, depressed. I know you wouldn't admit it, but you are depressed. I want to know _why_ you are depressed. Tirion is such a beautiful place, and there are so many things you haven't seen, but all of a sudden, you suddenly lose interest in everything! _Why?_"

"I am not depressed!" I argued. "I am not gloomy, I am not sad, I _am not depressed!_"

Then, abruptly, she started to laugh, and I, confused, felt annoyed.

"Why are you laughing at me?" I demanded.

She smiled. "Silmalir, I want to help you. Lately, you haven't been yourself, and it's really starting to get on my nerves every time you simply _nod_. I didn't even ask you yes or no questions!"

"Oh." I felt like a burden now. "I simply nod?"

Fána nodded quite vigorously then. "Yes, you have been very gloomy. You simply nod, and sometimes you don't even respond to your own name. You've really had Fiondo worried, and dare I say it, Lady Alquasar too. She's been looking at you from the other end of the hallway where she isn't even supposed to be."

I leaned against the wall, sighing. It felt cool and solid, like a very good support would feel. "Oh. Alright."

"There you go again," Fána said, obviously exasperated.

"Sorry."

"We are going for a walk."

I nodded.

* * *

><p>We walked along the outside of the medium height stone walls, and I looked over a scenery of green rolling down the hills that our city rested upon. There were little wild flowers of purple, yellow, and blue that decorated the grass that flowed down, and I thought the view was delightful. The walk was peaceful, and I was starting to feel a little better now.<p>

Of course, if I was feeling better, then Fánamaril was feeling like the world right now. She was jumping back and forth over the stone wall while keeping her forward pace. I watched her in slight admiration, for I never had such coordination to continue such a tedious pattern.

She also managed to keep up conversation.

"Isn't this great, Silmalir? It's so much better than being cooped up in that stuffy room that we sleep in!" she chirped. It felt like she was rubbing it in my face that I was convinced to come outside and was enjoying myself.

"Yes, it is," I told her as she jumped back over to my side.

Fánamaril then stopped jumping and matched my pace. "Do you want to try jumping? It's quite fun."

"It doesn't look too safe."

"If you're worried about your feet catching on the ledge, just tuck your legs in under you."

I sighed. "What about hitting my head?"

"You can shield it with your hands."

She wasn't serious, was she? "Alright. I'll do it. Just this once."

I walked further ahead and took in my surroundings. We had actually walked half the perimeter of the palace, and I was nearing the front of it quickly. I turned to Fánamaril, who nodded encouragingly. Heaving yet another sigh, I leapt over the stone wall.

* * *

><p>When you fall, you feel like your insides are rushing to the ground. When I fell, it felt like my face was ready to meet the floor.<p>

My face didn't meet the floor, but my torso did meet the wall. Then I couldn't get off the wall, because I was stuck. My body was apparently balanced perfectly on the granite, and I was positioned over it oddly. Therefore, I could only roll over, and the uneven rock scraped my arms and elbows as I basically fell off of the wall.

What had happened to cause this was that my foot had slipped on the wall, and I ended up falling on it. Ungracefully.

I quickly stood up straight and righted myself, blinking. Then I looked down at my arms and saw blood dripping down my elbows. I didn't even know walls could scrape skin to the point of flowing blood. Unable to think completely coherently, I dabbed at the blood with my sleeve and sat down on the grass, staring at my arms. They were scraped, and the skin was split open. It was not too pretty.

Fánamaril came rushing over, shock on her face.

"Oh Valar, Silmalir, are you alright? There's blood all over, and you look absolutely... You aren't reacting... Why aren't you reacting? You're bleeding! You need to be reacting, Silmalir! You're bleeding, and your sleeves are dripping with blood!"

I looked up. "Fána, calm down. It's just a little blood." I looked down at my arms again, and that's when I started to feel a stinging, burning feeling. "Okay, maybe it's starting to hurt now. Is it supposed to feel like it stings?"

"Yes!" she exclaimed. "We need to get you to the infirmary now."

"It just slightly hurts, Fána, nothing more. There's no need to go to the infirmary."

"You're bleeding!" She pulled me to my feet and pulled my sleeves up further. "Look at that! Abrasions of the worst kind! Now tell me you don't need to go to the infirmary."

"I don't need to go," I replied.

"Yes, you do!" she retorted and dragged me back into the palace, ignoring all of the glances that we received.

She may not have felt embarrassed in the least, but the back of my neck burned with all those stares. What made it worse was the appearance of a certain person around the corner of the hallway as we almost arrived at the infirmary.

That's right: Makalaurë.

And what made it the worst day of my life was that he was genuinely concerned, and I couldn't be mad at him for doing it. I wanted to be mad at him, despite my having not a righteous reason, but I couldn't be mad at him, because he was Makalaurë, and I just couldn't stay mad at him, or be mad at him, or even feel like I want to be mad at him.

Apparently he asked me a question, because now he was looking at me expectantly for an answer, and Fánamaril was dragging a hand down her face at how I wasn't paying attention at such times. I blinked, wondering what he had asked.

"Um... Maybe." I made a face, wondering if that answer was enough.

He smiled. "It was a yes or no question, Silmalir."

"Then...yes?" Now I was even more curious as to what he asked me. I sure hope he hadn't asked if I had done something stupid.

"I suppose you should get to the infirmary now; you look quite pale."

"I always look quite pale."

At least he didn't freak out over the blood.

"How can you not notice the blood, Makalaurë? It practically rolls off her arms and drenches her fingertips," Fánamaril cut in. She took hold of one of my arms and raised it to the light. "Look at this!"

Then Makalaurë really looked at my arm, and the scrape that adorned it. "What did you _do_ to yourself?"

"I jumped and...fell."

He shook his head. "I think I shall accompany you both to the infirmary."

Great. Now it was to be awkward in the infirmary, while I got my arms wrapped in bandages.

* * *

><p><strong>I swear I must be lacking in creative juices or something. I must read more romance novels so I can get inspiration flowing.<br>****But meanwhile, how do _you_ guys feel about it? Because in the end, it's really only your opinion that matters here.**

**Teaser! **: _"I wasn't lying when I said I loved you." _- **Makalaurë to Silmalir.**


	19. The Most Unromantic Elf Ever

**Makalaurë's perspective on things now!**

* * *

><p>I didn't know as much about Silmalir as I liked. When I caught her that day, and had the following conversation afterwards, I felt extremely stupid for not knowing as much as I thought I did. Apparently, she was kind and understanding, and she knew when to drop things when I did not wish to speak of them. She was basically everything that an Elf could ask for.<p>

She was also everything that I _couldn't_ ask for, because it would wreck our friendship.

Which I thought was complete bull.

But I followed by it, for I did not wish to lose her companionship.

I was criticized by Tyelkormo for apparently not having enough Elf in me to go for something more than friendship. I replied by saying that I could do that, and lose much more than friendship as well, and that ended his argument abruptly.

Then I ran into her in the hallway today, and to be honest, all I could focus on was her slightly empty face. Fánamaril told me about how she managed to injure herself, and I asked after her well-being. I asked _her_, but she didn't respond for a few seconds. Silmalir just stood there wordlessly, staring at my face for a moment, before realising that I had asked if she was alright. Then she blinked and gave an unsure response of:

"Um... Maybe."

Her facial expression was so endearing. It made me smile. "It was a yes or no question, Silmalir."

"Then...yes." It was obvious that she didn't know what I had just asked her.

I would be in her way no longer. "I suppose you should get to the infirmary now. You look quite pale." It was true that she was pale already, but she looked peaky right now, what with her being rushed to the infirmary.

"I always look quite pale," she replied.

At last, Fánamaril spoke, and she didn't sound quite so happy. "How can you not notice the _blood_, Makalaurë? It practically rolls off her arms and drenches her fingertips! Look at this!" And suddenly, Silmalir's bloodstained arm was thrust in my face, and I almost wanted to gasp at how much blood there was. I cursed my stupidity, for I had only ever been paying attention to her face.

"What did you _do_ to yourself?" I managed to get out coherently.

"I jumped and...fell," Silmalir said lamely in a bad attempt to explain.

I shook my head, sighing. "I think I shall accompany you both to the infirmary."

* * *

><p>I could tell she was awkward around me. Ever since I spoke to Uncle Arafinwë's wife, the air barely retained a scream of 'AWKWARD!' whenever we were both in the same room. Silmalir scarcely spoke as her arms were wrapped up in bandages, and I got a close up inspection of just exactly what damage had been done.<p>

I was surprised. How in the name of Calacirya did she manage to mangle her arms like _that?_

Of course, to make it worse, we didn't speak at all, and Fána had left to resume her duties, like they originally should have been doing. I looked down quietly at the floor, imagining a scenario where she had managed to obtain a giant kitchen knife, or even more morbidly, a rough rock, and used it to purposely inflict harm on herself. The thought of it made me wince without thinking.

"Makalaurë, are you alright?"

Quickly, I looked up from the floor and stared into the stone-grey eyes of Silmalir. "What do you mean?"

She raised an eyebrow. "You just winced."

"Oh. I did? I was remembering something particularly unpleasant." Or thinking about it, and it pertained to you. But if I say that, you'll get the wrong idea, most likely. This really isn't helping me, speaking to myself inside of my brain.

"It didn't involve me, did it?"

I am not an open book, am I? "Absolutely not. I wouldn't think of you and something unpleasant. It simply doesn't go together."

Silmalir smiled. "There are plenty of unpleasant things about me. You just don't know them yet."

Was she purposely trying to ruin the perfect image I had of her in my mind? Was I even supposed to _have_ a perfect image of her in my mind? Valar, I was going mad, wasn't I? I sighed and looked to the floor again. "I am sure they aren't nearly as unpleasant as what Atar keeps in his forge."

"My mother was drowned when I was four, right in front of my eyes."

I blinked and looked at her again, holding her gaze. "What happened?" I asked softly, definitely knowing that I wouldn't be able to sleep unless I uncovered the mystery behind it.

"Our town was attacked," she said simply. "Those monsters came without warning, and we were overwhelmed for a while. She was killed before my eyes, and I couldn't do anything about it. You can ask Lady Alquasar. She was there as well, right next to me. Of course, she doesn't know that I remember her being there."

A sudden urge to walk over and place my hand on her shoulder came over me, but I didn't act on it. Only friendly interactions. _Only_ friendly interactions. "I'm truly sorry, Silmalir. Your past must have been traumatic without a maternal figure. Or, at least, Lady Alquasar as a maternal figure. But you had your father, right?"

"He faded when I was twelve. Lady Alquasar was quite distraught for a bit, but I know she wasn't suffering badly as I was," she replied nonchalantly. "I could see the hurt in her eyes when she looked me. I could see the fresh pain."

"Lady Alquasar?"

"They were married."

"Then your mother..."

"His first wife."

This was a bit too much to comprehend. Suddenly, Silmalir was talking to me about her family, and I felt confused as to how intricate the family design was. That would make Lady Alquasar... "She's your step-mother?"

Silmalir's mouth stretched wide in a grin. "I suppose so."

"How did _that_ happen?"

"It's hard to believe, but I think my father fell in love again. Or, his eyes fell in love, but his heart remained true to my mother. You see, the Valar allowed him another chance at matrimony. He was never truly happy, but having a wife reminded him of what he had with my mother. So he went through with it and thanked the Valar, and he ended up wedding Lady Alquasar. I ended up as the awkward first daughter, doomed to remain a memory of my father's first wife. Aicelen and Lohtilin definitely believed that they were loved more than I, and for a while, I believed it too."

"You are more loved than they are," I thought aloud firmly.

She blinked and stared into my eyes. "Who else could possibly love me, Makalaurë?"

I resisted the urge to swear. "Well," I tried to come up with someone's name as soon as possible. "Caranthir, Findekáno, Maitimo, Tyelkormo; they all love you. So does Fánamaril...and..." I closed my eyes as I said The Words. "So do I."

I could only imagine the mortification on her face. I opened my eyes and saw barely masked shock...and happiness.

"Really?" she asked hesitantly, eyes literally shining. Or it could be my eyes playing tricks on me...or her actually holding back tears... Oh orc shite. I managed to make her cry. That definitely deserved a mental slap in the face.

"Well, of course," I replied, unsure of which part she was referring to. "We all love you."

Silmalir then officially looked stumped, and she laughed weakly. "Oh, how could I doubt that? I feel so loved."

I wasn't sure if that was sarcasm or not. "You'll always have our support. You definitely have my support."

"Right."

Just on cue, one of the healers walked in, and I took that as my cue to get out. I was really grateful to the healer. But, as I caught sight of Silmalir's down-expression, I felt a duty to say some more stupid things before I stepped outside of that door.

"Silmalir," I called to her. She looked up, meeting my eyes. I felt a slight jolt run through my spine. "I wasn't lying when I said I love you."

Then I left, feeling like a lovestruck idiot.

Because obviously, I was.

* * *

><p>I am officially the most stupid Elf in Aman.<p>

And even if she did love me back in _that_ way, then I was the most unromantic person ever, proclaiming my love in the infirmary. A place where people with injuries got patched up. A place where Elves threw up into buckets because they were sick.

"You said that you loved her then?" Tyelkormo exclaimed as I told him what happened.

I nodded, unable to speak through my humiliation. My utter humiliation.

"What did she say?" he asked, obviously interested and eager to hear more.

"I left before she had a chance to say anything," I replied miserably, slumping forward onto the table of the library. "I am the worst Elf at romance ever. Not even Father would be so unpractical and say that he loved someone in a sick place."

Tyelkormo shook his head, smiling down at me. "This is a step to pure love, my brother. My dear, dear, dense brother. I bet she totally fancies you as well. Next time, say you love her again, and see if she says it back. I have a feeling that she will."

I looked up at him and sighed, allowing hair to get in the way of my sight. "Or she would run away in embarrassment, because I chose the precise wrong moment to say: 'I love you. Will you spend the rest of your life with me?' Valar, being in love is so _hard_. And speaking of in love, what of you and Fána, huh?"

He sighed. "It wouldn't work out. I know it. Besides, we are focusing on _your_ problem right now. Something tells me you need to woo Silmalir. Most females like to be wooed. And I, as your great, awesome brother, will help you, because I am just helpful. We can get Maitimo to help too. I think he'd like the idea of being the person holding the chandelier over you two."

I got up from the chair and backed away. "I'm not planning a romantic dinner or anything! I don't think I'll need to woo her. I've already scared her away with my enigmatic, sudden proclamation of love."

"How did you say it?"

"I quote, 'I wasn't lying when I said I love you.' I already said I loved her before, but I didn't say it directly, so I just brought it out and made it more obvious and..." I stopped for a moment to regain my breath. "Do you think it makes me sound a little too desperate?"

"You are desperate."

I sighed and sat back down, burying my head in my arms. "I'm doomed. Not even Mandos can give out a worse doom. I'm doomed!"

"You're not doomed," Tyelkormo argued. He dragged me out of the chair. "Now, come on. We are getting you a female by the end of Lady Alquasar's stay, and I know that you'll want it to be Silmalir. So let's go!"

A librarian from around the corner glared at Tyelkormo. "Shh!"

* * *

><p><strong>Oh yeah. I had Makalaurë make the first move. On accident.<br>What do you think of this chapter?**

Teaser: _"I'm leaving tomorrow."_


	20. What's the Plan?

**Silmalir is back. And she's definitely overjoyed and stumped in this chapter.  
>It's the twentieth chapter! Definitely my longest fiction yet! I'm so happy that I have such faifthful readers.<br>You guys know who you are, and you'll definitely get a mention soon.**

**I have to admit, I never thought I would reach twenty. I thought I would have given up on the fifth chapter, but you guys have kept me strong. I'm glad that you kind of overlook my typos that I catch, because I see them, and it totally embarrasses me when I see them. So...I hope you'll keep on reading, whoever is reading this!**

**Now... I'm going to let you enjoy this chapter now! Unless you absolutely hate twentieth chapters, because...then I'm going to warn you against it.**

* * *

><p>I think I was honestly overjoyed to find out that he loved me. I quote!<p>

_"I wasn't lying when I said I love you."_

I still can't stop smiling.

"Why are you so cheerful today?" Fánamaril asked as I got out of bed with a big smile on my face.

"Oh, Fána, if only you knew..." I said, trailing off. "Today is a wonderful day! Just like every other day! And I should have realised it sooner! Now, I find I'm quite hungry, so let's get down to the kitchens to get something to eat! What say you?"

Fánamaril propped herself up on the bed and raised an eyebrow. "I say that you can go alone. I'm tired, and yesterday, seeing you get bloodied up, made me really tired. So, you can go down to the kitchens _without_ me."

"But, Fánamaril—!"

"No buts, Silmalir! Just go on and go eat, if that's what you want to do. I'm happy that you aren't moping around anymore, but I'm certainly not happy that you are dragging your cheerfulness out on me."

Imagine: it was only yesterday that Fánamaril was more cheerful than I was. But I suppose I had a very good reason to be so happy and cheerful and annoying. Makalaurë actually said he loved me! And I was excited, because I kind of loved him too. Or more than kind of loved him. But the point was, I loved him back, and there was definitely nothing that was keeping me from doubting him.

I said this to myself as I exited the rooms, and I thought nothing could go wrong. I went out down the grand stairs and made my way to the kitchens when I ran into Lady Alquasar. Stopping myself immediately, I bowed and greeted her.

"We're going back to the residence tomorrow," she replied.

As she walked off into the banquet hall, I stared after her, uncomprehending. Surely...surely I didn't have to leave so soon? Right after Makalaurë said that he loved me? Right after I was so willing to forget about that guest that he spoke to? Where was the justice in this world?

Suddenly, I wasn't so hungry anymore. I turned around and walked in the direction where I came from, thinking how life was so unfair. It was definitely unfair to me. I was contemplating whether or not to stay behind when I suddenly stumbled into Makalaurë himself. And seeing him made me think of what Lady Alquasar said, and thinking of what Lady Alquasar said made me want to punch a wall with my bare fist.

"Silmalir," Makalaurë started to say. "I—"

"I'm leaving tomorrow," I cut him off, sighing. I knew interrupting was impolite, but I had to get my point across first. I had to lay the bad news down on the table so I could cover it with not so bad news. "Lady Alquasar told me this morning." I looked into his eyes. "What did you want to say?"

He looked like he was torn between raising an eyebrow, saying, 'You just interrupted me, giving me the worst news ever, and now you want to hear what I was going to say?' and completely just punching a wall. Which was exactly how I felt with the latter.

"Well, Silmalir, now that you've just given me an incentive to hurry, I can only say that I love you...again. And that I'm serious about it. So why don't you stay behind instead of going back with Lady Alquasar?"

"How?"

"Courtship. Betrothal."

"But that eventually leads to marriage!"

"I'm only ever going to love you," he replied.

I...wasn't sure how to respond to that. "I'm glad to know that you love me...because I love you too... But I'm a servant. And you're the son of a prince. You have to admit that it has the best possibility of the worst survival chances. I don't think the courtship would last. At all. Also, if the courtship doesn't last, then the betrothal definitely won't last. So...you tell me your plan."

"Um..."

"Don't tell me you weren't thinking of a plan? Surely you didn't think I would stay here forever?"

He made a face. "Come on, Silmalir. You didn't think that I would actually think up a brilliant, fool-proof plan, did you? To be honest, I only thought of rejection at the time, and nothing about you leaving. This complicates things a _lot_. Now, I will most likely have to sit back and think of a plan."

I sighed. "Well, I have to get back to my duties. It's early in the morning, and I have to put my time to good use. Goodbye, Makalaurë." With that spoken, I started to walk past him, when he called after me and took my elbow.

"Wait," he said. "You realise that I do love you, right?" I nodded. He grinned. "Then it will definitely work out."

I only wish that I had his strong faith.

* * *

><p>I was panicking. That was the only valid reason why I was currently in bed, clutching my bed sheets to me. Yes, I loved him. Yes, I wanted to be with him. And <em>yes<em>, I would go through with the courtship. Because I was of age, I could announce a marriage right now. But I was a servant, and he was the son of a prince, so that wouldn't work out too much. My leaving _did_ complicate things as well, and I couldn't convince Lady Alquasar to let me stay behind and marry Makalaurë.

The idea was ridiculous as soon as it was thought of.

How long ago had it been that I had come here? Three weeks? Perhaps even a longer period of time? It felt like a year to me. I could only imagine what it would feel like to live in the palace every day, which brings me back to Makalaurë, and his proposition of courtship.

Valar, help me. I was only three-hundred and seven! I didn't know what to do in situations like this!

The door opened, and in came Fánamaril.

She came over to my bed, and jumped on me. "You didn't tell me you were getting married!"

I raised my head from my pillow and sighed. "I'm not. First, it has to be approved by Makalaurë's parents. Then, it has to be approved by Lady Alquasar, because my parents are dead. Which doesn't work out, because Lady Alquasar definitely wouldn't want me to marry Makalaurë. So there's a big chance that I'm _not_ getting married."

"Right," Fána said, obviously ignoring what I just said. "Lady Alquasar will definitely have to agree. You and Makalaurë are so right together!"

"Other nobles may not think that. I know Lady Alquasar does _not_ think that."

"Oh, come off of it, Silmalir. As long as you two love each other, nothing can stop that."

I buried my face into the pillow again and let out a sigh. Then I mumbled into my pillow, "Everything stops it. I'm not of noble blood, remember? Even if I was, I probably wouldn't be up to Prince Fëanáro's standards. Not to mention Lady Nerdanel's and King Finwë's. I don't know if I can do this."

"Silmalir," Fánamaril told me. "You know you don't give a rat's fart about their opinions."

Well, it was true that I didn't... "I kind of have to, if I am to become his wife."

"Oh, please! You never cared for any noble's opinion. Remember that time that some lord came over, and he saw you playing around in the mud?"

"I was only eight."

"Yes, you were only eight, but he saw you, and you stuck your tongue out at him."

I sighed into my pillow again. "I was eight!"

"But you don't care, because you know you won't let it get in the way of your relationship with Makalaurë. You both have something special. I know it. So, don't let anyone else put you down. Alright?"

Upon hearing these words, I looked up at Fána.

"Whenever did you become so wise?"

* * *

><p>Makalaurë sighed, running a hand through his hair <em>again<em>. What would he do? What could he do? What _should_ he do? He couldn't do anything. For once, in a position like this, he was powerless. He picked up his lyre and considered throwing it against a wall. Then he placed it in the proper playing position, sighing as he strummed a small tune with his hands.

"I see you've gotten back into playing random things, Makalaurë," said a voice from the doorway.

Makalaurë turned around to see his mother, and, placing his lyre against the small tea table, he immediately got out of his chair to help her into one. A chair, of course. "Shouldn't you be resting?"

Nerdanel smiled. "I came to see my distraught son."

He blinked. "Distraught?"

"Yes, distraught. Apparently, rumors have been flying that my son has fallen in love with someone, and his love is doomed to never be returned because of certain circumstances...and following consequences," she replied. "I came here after hearing this from Tyelkormo..."

"Of course. Tyelkormo."

"Tyelkormo," Nerdanel agreed. "So...may I ask who this girl is? Unless her name is Silmalir? Because then, I recall a certain conversation in my room involving her name. And also involving mention of you holding her hands, and then holding her in your arms. You remember, don't you?"

Makalaurë felt his face heat up. "How could I forget, mother?"

She chuckled good-naturedly. "Of course you wouldn't be able to." Then her face turned serious. "You love her, don't you?"

"How could I not?" he sighed. "Just seeing her makes me feel all possessive. I'm worried that I annoy her at times, or that I've horribly offended her. Or that she'll go missing and turn up dead on the doorstep to the palace, leaving me alone in the world. I can't help but think these thoughts, and I've long since stopped thinking that I was wrong to think them. But, Ammë...I'm not allowed to love her, am I?"

Nerdanel looked into Makalaurë's eyes, trying to find a trace of falsehood. And she found that she couldn't. "Nothing can prevent you from loving her, my son. But it would seem that everything prevents you from being able to openly love her. When your father decided to court me instead of those other Noldorin witches—don't look at me like that! I know you feel the same way about them. But, anyways, back to the point; Fëanáro did not allow the norms to hinder our relationship any further, and he took the step that landed us in the position of husband and wife."

Makalaurë leaned back against the chair he sat in. "I just want to...protect her. Hold her in my arms. I can't help but feel so, like it's my duty to be her guardian, and her Light."

"Ah yes. I was informed of that certain incident. You are Silmalir's Light, apparently."

He looked down awkwardly at his hands. "What should I do, Ammë? She is leaving tomorrow."

"If you truly love her," Nerdanel said, smiling kindly at her son, "then it should turn out alright."

"How do you know?" he asked miserably, deflated now that his confession was out. "She told me herself; we would not work out. The son of a prince and a servant of a noble lady... An odd combination. Now that I think about it, I think she may be right."

"Do you love her?" she questioned.

"Yes," Makalaurë answered automatically. Then he blushed at the automatic, serious response that he took on. "Yes," he repeated more softly. "I can't help it. She makes me love her all the time."

A grin found its way onto Nerdanel's face. "Then love her."

* * *

><p><strong>Phew. I almost lost inspiration, and then I read some Harry Potter, and then I found inspiration again!<br>(But, sorry, Harry Potter, I'm a Silmarillion-person.)**

**Makalaurë and his adorably gushiness...and his being slightly out-of-character... (or at least, I hope it's only slightly...)  
>I couldn't find Nerdanel's Quenya name...or translate her name into Quenya, so I stuck with Sindarin. Sorry, all of you who were expecting Quenya names in the story!<strong>

**My newest obsession is 'Somewhere Only We Know,' by Keane. :D**


	21. Life Is Especially Unfair Today

**TWENTY-ONE! You guys totally rock, sticking with me all the way. I know I was excited about twenty, but I have a feeling that the story is coming to a close. Or not. 'Cos there are still plenty of things to write about, so you can expect one-chapter stories too! Or other small stories.**

**Are you excited? Because I am! Twenty-one. Let's roll.**

Oh, and...I've finally decided to drop the bomb on you guys. This is the point of no return.  
>Haha, actually, I don't really know if it is. I just go with the flow here.<p>

* * *

><p>I slowly placed the last of my wardrobe into the bag that I had brought with me. It was one of the decent things I owned. And one of the most useless unless I was traveling to some place and staying there for the rest of my life. On second thought, it was one of the most convenient things that I owned. I loved my bag. I'm so glad that I brought it with me.<p>

_Great,_ I groaned internally, plopping down on the bed. _Now, I am speaking to myself._

Then I glared at the bag, my source of insanity.

There was knocking at the door, and a voice drifted through the wooden door.

"Silmalir! Are you packed yet?"

For a moment, I considered not responding. But then, my mouth opened, and I replied with a 'Yes!'

The door opened, and in came Fánamaril. Then there was an obvious groan as she caught sight of my bed, covered with trinkets and trash. Well, I didn't say that I packed anything other than my wardrobe, and I sure as well didn't say that I was even closed to finished. She pulled me off of the bed and ordered me to finish cleaning up the...mess that I had on my bed.

All the while, Fánamaril supervised me, telling me to fold the cloth this way, or ordering me to place the magnets together so it wouldn't become a jumbled mess. Prince Fëanáro really did wonders in his forge, creating what he proclaimed to be 'magnets.' I might have heard wrong, but I was pretty sure he said magnets. Then I was snapped out of my thoughts as my hand landed on the bed bad-temperedly to snag the next unfortunate item in the midst of my wrath. There were no items left.

I faced the fact that I was simply stalling because I hadn't seen Makalaurë yet, and I hoped he had some brilliant plan that wasn't stupid and didn't involve eloping. My bag was taken from me, and I could tell that Fánamaril was going to dump it on the back of the carriage, like it had been dumped originally when I first came to this cursed place. And met him.

It was getting harder to breathe. I went over to the washroom and splashed water into my face, gasping as water trickled down my throat uninvitingly. Coughing now, I stumbled outside of the washroom and walked to the window, admiring the view before me. It was never too late to appreciate what you were about to leave, and that's what I was doing right now.

Promptly, I was snapped out of yet another daze as knocking resumed to torture me. I tucked hair cantankerously behind my ear before going over to yank open the door...

...and meet the surprised face of Makalaurë as he received my moody greeting.

"Silmalir," he sighed with relief. "You're still here."

"Makalaurë," I said, lip trembling with the effort not to cry. I suddenly felt like I wanted to pool out the water in my eyes, but I couldn't do that in front of him. I _wouldn't_. Because I wasn't weak enough to cry in front of people. "Of course I'm still here."

A grin stretched wide on his face. "Is it the absolutely worst time to tell you that I love you, for the first time today?"

I rolled my eyes, but it was endearing to me. "No. I think I need it right now."

"Then I love you."

"I love you too."

"Great. Ready to run away with me?"

"_What?_"

Makalaurë laughed at the expression on my face. Of utter disbelief and shock and anger. "I'm sorry, Silmalir, but I just had to see your reaction to it if I said it. I'm joking. I promise that we aren't going to do anything stupid like that."

I sighed. "What's the plan?"

"I'm going to plead our case."

I gaped at him like a fish. "_That's the plan_?" He smiled, pulling me into his arms, and for a moment, I felt my heart melt all over again. Tears kind of fought their way to the surface, but I staved them off. "I don't think it's going to work."

"It will, love. I'm ready to get on my knees and beg for assent, if that's what it takes. Or, if you prefer, I'll just kidnap you, and we could run away to Taniquetil. Or Alqualondë. My uncle is married to one of the Telerin maidens."

I pulled back. "That's...wonderful, Makalaurë, but what makes you think Lady _Alquasar _will agree? I'm still under her guardianship, and she's not going to let it go that easily if I married into the royal family."

"She'll come—"

"Silmalir!"

Immediately, I jumped back from Makalaurë's embrace and greeted the person who called my name: Lohtilin. She didn't even give Makalaurë a glance (probably didn't notice him) as she dragged me out of the room, telling me all the way how her mother was waiting, and that I shouldn't keep her mother waiting, even though I didn't give a single grain of thought for it.

I was pulled down the stairs and through the main entrance of the palace, and I saw a saddle and horse waiting for me. Right there. I almost groaned, remembering that I was still a servant, despite the fact that I was basically treated like a respected individual at the palace. Lohtilin gave me one smirk before climbing into the carriage, and I resisted the urge to throw the nearest rock I could find through that shield of paper they called a window.

Of course, there were more interruptions as Maitimo, Makalaurë, Tyelkormo, Caranthir, and Findekáno came down to say goodbye, though I appreciated it. But it was a little unnecessary, considering that the entire royal family—meaning King Finwë, Queen Indis, Prince Fëanáro, Princess Findis, Prince Nolofinwë, Princess Irimë, and Prince Arafinwë—was there to wave us off. Nevertheless, I said my goodbyes to all of them, similar to Fánamaril, who gave Tyelkormo a particularly large hug, but I felt a tingling sensation down my spine as I realised that this was it. I was leaving him.

Makalaurë came closer to my horse, and thankfully, I hadn't mounted, for he had something important to say to me.

He bent down and whispered in my ear, "If Father and Grandfather approve, look to the east for a white horse, alright?"

I smiled and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Goodbye, Makalaurë."

As I mounted, he stood there silently, looking up at me with those calculating icy blue eyes that were ever so intelligent. Then, I tore my gaze away and followed after the carriage that started to leave, and I could only imagine how much pain filled those eyes after I broke our connection.

I tried not to let the tears fall freely.

I failed.

* * *

><p>We got back to the estate as soon as the light of Laurelin turned to Telperion's. I walked after my horse was taken to the stables, finding it even harder to breathe than in the palace, and I stumbled up to whatever it was in front of me, and I thought about my room and my <em>bed, <em>where I would happily collapse onto a comforting reminder of the unfair life that I had. Fánamaril chuckled at my eagerness as I nearly fell over myself trying to get up the stairs to the entrance of the residence.

Instead of collapsing on my bed—scratch that. Instead of making it inside the estate, I fell to the ground right as the door opened in my face (courtesy of Arátor), and light shone upon the slightly darker atmosphere around us. Then everything went black, and I felt the familiar rush of fear run through my body before I succumbed.

This wasn't exactly the 'welcome home' that I expected.

* * *

><p>Makalaurë, after feeling worse than ever, went back into the palace after a long moment of striding around the gardens, thinking about Silmalir. Already, the palace was much more quiet, and he could hear the birds sing no longer. The leaves and brances of the trees did not dance in the wind, to his knowledge, and he strode inside, a heavy feeling settling on his chest. He never felt so much like being run over by Oromë's horse, Nahar.<p>

Then he concluded that being run over would probably make him feel _better_, as he walked towards the impending double doors leading to his grandfather's court. He pushed open the doors and stalked inside, knowing he was being watched as his every step brought him closer to his father and grandfather and uncles. Then Makalaurë reminded himself that every step brought him closer to seeing Silmalir again, and he sucked it up.

"Makalaurë!" Fëanáro exclaimed, slightly surprised, but pleasantly surprised. "What are you doing here? You were never one to take interest in matters of court..." His expression turned to a worried one. "Is your mother alright?"

"Yes, Atar," Makalaurë replied, sighing heavily. "I wish to...ask for permission to do this."

King Finwë leaned forward, raising an eyebrow towards his grandson. "To do what?"

"To court Silmalir."

Uncle Arafinwë blinked. "My nephew, I'm afraid you must be mistaken...but Silmalir left hours ago. Why are you asking for permission now?"

Makalaurë felt absolutely horrible now. He didn't know what to do, now that he had realised that his family's reactions were entirely different from how he had predicted them to be. "Because...I was afraid...that...I... I was... I am so stupid."

Chuckling could be heard from Uncle Nolofinwë, and the entire court (now completely visible and obvious to Makalaurë) turned to him.

"Ah, Makalaurë," Uncle Nolofinwë finally said. "We respect the fact that you worried about our opinions on your relationship to Silmalir. Or at least, I do. If she's what it takes for you to feel complete, then go for it."

Makalaurë almost sighed in relief. Then Uncle Arafinwë added his input; "You are so young, and intelligent. Except on love. But perhaps, it is because you are young, and are not educated in the mysteries of affection. Still, I agree with Nolofinwë on this one." Arafinwë turned to Finwë himself. "What do you think, Atar?"

Finwë grinned. "Simply put, as you youngsters would say, 'I am all for it.' Silmalir is truly a respectable woman. Speaking of respectable women, what is this about Tyelkormo and Silmalir's friend? I assume that Miss Fánamaril is under guardianship of Lady Alquasar as well...and..."

"Does she truly love you, Makalaurë?" a quiet voice suddenly broke in.

"Yes, Atar."

"How can you be sure?" Fëanáro prompted.

"Because. I know she is." Ignoring how pompous that sounded, Makalaurë continued. "Every time I tell her that I love her, she would reply in kind. And the look in her eyes when she sees it's me that interrupts whatever important thing she's doing; it's geniune. It wasn't purely of coincidence that only I could rouse her from her sleep. She—I know—" He was getting a little flustered, trying to explain. "I know that I love her."

Fëanáro smiled at his son. "I do not doubt your love for her, Makalaurë. But I cannot be sure of Silmalir. You may not wish to go through with this, but I would have her prove her love for you."

"Prove her love for me?"

"Makalaurë, meet Lady Calwilmë," his father replied, moving aside to provide sight of a golden-haired Elf-lady, walking towards Makalaurë with her blue eyes focused on him.

She curtseyed. "Greetings, Lord Kanafinwë."

Makalaurë suddenly had a horrible feeling about what his father had planned for Silmalir.

No one was quick enough to catch him as he fell in a dead faint to the hard marble floor.

* * *

><p><strong>Names:<br>**_Calwilmë - 'calwa' + ' ilmë' _- beautiful starlight

**You guys are probably going to hate the crap out of me now that I've introduced this new lady.  
>I wouldn't blame you. I think I hate me too.<strong>


	22. A Cruel Joke?

**There is definitely something about this chapter that made me feel mushy-gushy. Did I mention that I now have three scratches on my arm, and the cat is the primary suspect? I don't even know how I _got_ the stupid wounds... Oh well.**

**Let's read!  
>Or...you read, and I just wait for your review on what you thought about it.<strong>

* * *

><p>Silmalir's health considerably deteriorated, and she was reduced to laying in bed, gazing at the window that faced east in her room. Lady Alquasar had taken to have Fánamaril check up on her five times a day, though Silmalir simply resorted to hiding under the covers during the visits. Hope had practically killed off any faith that she had left in her body, and she felt absolutely tired.<p>

But maybe that was because of his refusal to eat.

"Silmalir," a voice whispered in her ear. She could tell it was Fánamaril. "Please eat the bread, at least. I realise that you miss Makalaurë, but his heart would be hurting immensely right now if he could see you. You have to keep your energy up."

Tears leaked down Silmalir's eyes at the mention of Makalaurë. As she heard Fánamaril give up with a sigh, ready to walk outside the room, Silmalir removed the covers from her head, for the first time in 25 days, and she called softly after Fána. Immediately, a dark head popped up in the doorway, smiling widely at her. Silmalir tried to untangle herself and stand on her own two feet.

"Thanks," she mumbled quietly, after Fánamaril helped her downstairs.

Lady Alquasar, who had been lounging in the living room, saw Silmalir, and just happened to hear what she said. Then she turned to Fánamaril and sighed. "It can't be helped. She needs him."

Lady Alquasar got up from her place and went upstairs, and Silmalir, momentarily distracted, turned to stare at her step-mother as she walked the stairs like a platform. The thought of wondering what Lady Alquasar was going to do crossed Silmalir's mind for one moment before she turned to thinking about keeping down the torrent of emotions that was threatening to choke her.

"Silmalir," Fánamaril said. "Do you miss him?"

She nodded lamely, unable to speak without crying.

* * *

><p>Lady Alquasar sat in her room, at her desk, really, staring at the inkwell and the empty scroll of parchment. Her thoughts wandered back to the frail and pale Silmalir downstairs, weak and unable to support herself. Then she made up the decision and took the writing utensil from the inkwell. Of course, the matter of what to write to the king crossed her mind as well, and she plopped the tip of the pen into the ink.<p>

_Dear King Finwë._

_Greetings. How is your family? I am assuming that they are well? _

_Because my family is _not_. Your grandson has absolutely violated my step-daughter's thoughts, and now, she will not even eat, or get up to look any of us in the eye. Fánamaril has finally managed to coax her into going downstairs, but she still has not taken in an ounce of nutrition. Now, Silmalir has been turned into a weak, fragile person that cannot even stand by herself. Her health is horrible, and I cannot imagine a time when she has smiled during this period of...of...isolation._

_I would like to see Makalaurë, but I would rather demand an explanation of why the two cannot be together. More than once, I have heard her asleep, mumbling about white horses and the east. Since there are no white horses arriving in from the east, I can only assume that you will not allow her to love your grandson, which I find very unreasonable._

_I also realise that I am out of my place, speaking extremely rudely to you, my king. But, I hope that you will find reason in your heart and open up to Silmalir. She is truly a wonderful girl, despite what I might seem like to her. Please...give her a chance. To prove that she truly loves him. Just one._

_Best wishes,  
>Lady Alquasar<em>

She rolled up the scroll and went downstairs, handing it to Arátor. He knew that it would be addressed to the king, and quickly wrote the location of delivery on the letter before going outside to place it in the basket of letters that they usually placed letters in.

Lady Alquasar, meanwhile, sat down next to Silmalir and held her clammy hand, wondering if she would ever return to the resilent Elf she was before. Perhaps going to the palace had been a mistake. Perhaps bringing anything but herself and her two daughters was a mistake. But then, Silmalir wouldn't have known what it was like to have her heart placed upon the point of a knife...and have it gently cut into, by the one she loved most.

Letting a sigh escape her lips, Lady Alquasar gently petted Silmalir's hand and went outside again, ready to pace around like she frequently did now.

* * *

><p>King Finwë received the letter three days after, and he was quite shocked to find that Silmalir was ill. Despite his urge to read further, the door opened, and he changed his mind, stuffing it into his desk drawer as quickly as possible. Then entered Makalaurë, who looked pale and haunted. His face was devoid of expression except for one, and that was loss.<p>

"What is wrong, Makalaurë?" he asked gently, knowing that his words would have to be soft to enter his grandson's brain.

"I miss her, Grandfather," sighed Makalaurë.

Finwë smiled sadly and was about to speak reassuring words when Makalaurë continued.

"My heart feels like the entire Mindon is crushing it into the floor. I feel absolutely terrible without Silmalir. By now, I should be at her house, groveling for forgiveness because of how tardy I am to announce approval of our courtship." Makalaurë plopped down in a chair. "I am an absolute idiot."

Now, the king of the Noldor wasn't sure how to handle this.

"I hate myself for promising her and then breaking the promise."

"Makalaurë, you will see Silmalir soon," Finwë abruptly said. "You will see her very soon. She is coming back to the palace in a few days, so to speak, so you might want to clear up all of the doubt you've got and start acting like...well...how your father wants you to act." Well, Finwë wasn't sure how he was going to make the former happen, but he could start by apologising to Lady Alquasar about Silmalir's...bad health.

"He wants me to pretend that I'm in love with Lady Calwilmë," Makalaurë said in disgust. "Lady Calwilmë is a nice person, but he must realise that the only person that I could ever even come close to loving as much as I love her is the same person that I love deeply with all of my heart. And that is her. Silmalir. I can't imagine even fooling her, because she'll probably see right through me."

The king stared at his grandson as if he had sprouted a head. Because obviously, three-hundred year olds weren't supposed to make sudden declarations of love (despite the fact that Finwë remembered himself, at the age of a ripe two hundred, asking for _her_ hand in marriage...and she had agreed and made him the happiest person in Aman) because they were feeling down.

He made a note to get started on that letter.

* * *

><p>Lady Alquasar was utterly surprised to receive the most heartfelt apology that she had ever read...from the king. Which made her drop the thing in absolute horror. What had she done, raging in her letter to the king, to make him apologise like his life depended on it? She reread the entire thing again and saw that he had distinctly mentioned Silmalir's health...several times. Then he suggested that she come back to the palace with Silmalir and Fánamaril and her two daughters and start over.<p>

Something about it didn't seem right. Like it was a trap, waiting to catch the prey that came along.

She narrowed her eyes at the letter, and was so focused on it that she didn't even hear her daughter, Aicelen, come along. With a letter in her hand. But, of course, Lady Alquasar noticed, and she called her daughter out on it.

Aicelen guiltily meandered over to her mother, hiding the letter behind her back.

"What do you have there, Aicelen?" Lady Alquasar asked warily.

"A letter, Ammë."

"From this person, I presume, who has fallen madly in love with you, and you love him back too?" she joked.

"I knew you would understand, Ammë! I shall write back to him immediately!" Aicelen cried in delight, hugging her mother and running up the stairs to the second floor. Leaving a dumbstruck Lady Alquasar behind in the living room.

Lady Alquasar blinked. She had been joking. Which meant that she hadn't been serious. And...

* * *

><p>A swear could be heard from the estate of Lady Alquasar. Silmalir could hear it all the way from her bedroom on the second floor. She simply sighed and tried to warm herself up with the blanket. It was actually quite cold in the room...despite the fireplace being lit. Then, the door opened, and a flushed Fána came rushing in, holding a poor, abused letter in her hand.<p>

"Fána?" Silmalir said, wondering why her friend was so excited.

"We're going back to the palace!" Fánamaril explained, grinning. "I think they've secretly got this wedding planned for you, Silmalir. That's why they're being so quiet about it, and making you wait so long. Now you've got your happy ending!"

Silmalir sat up weakly and smiled. "We're going back to the palace?"

"Yes!"

"And I'm going to see Makalaurë?"

"Have I not made myself clear? Yes!"

Silmalir immediately tossed aside her covers and got up, taking the letter from Fánamaril's hand and stumbling over to sit down in the armchair by the fireplace. She read it over and over again, surprised that King Finwë, _the_ King Finwë, apologised to Lady Alquasar...over...herself. She blinked as mention of her deteriorating health was put into the letter, despite the fact that King Finwë wasn't supposed to have any knowledge of it.

"How..." she mumbled.

"Never mind how!" Fánamaril sighed. "We're going back to the palace, and that's all that matters!"

Silmalir smiled, and the thought of Makalaurë's smile made her feel strangely at calm. "Alright. I suppose I have to get packed again and..." she let out a yawn; "I do hope that this isn't a joke or something."

Fánamaril's gaze darkened. "If it's a joke, then it's really cruel to do this to you."

Silmalir didn't like Fána's bad mood too much, so she decided to go with humor. "It wouldn't be the first time something cruel's been done to me. I mean, I just can't believe that my raisins were taken from me! They know how much I like raisins!"

Fána raised an eyebrow, but the corner of her mouth was twitching. "Who's they?"

The dark-haired Elf in the armchair motioned for her to come over. Fána grudgingly allowed herself to saunter over, wondering who was this 'they' that Silmalir spoke of. She was ready to deck anyone straight in the nose for being cruel to her friend.

When Fána was right next to her, Silmalir leaned over to whisper in one finely pointed ear: "The voices in my head. They never leave me alone, for some reason, so I eat raisins to block out their unwanted banter." She sniffed. "But it never seems to work. I am mentally unstable."

Fánamaril rolled her eyes and stared down unsympathetically at Silmalir. "You've finally admitted it."

Then the two burst out laughing, one leaning against the chair for support, and one weakly clutching her aching abdomen.

* * *

><p><strong>Well, it better not be a cruel joke!<br>**_I'll just guiltily hide away in my closet...  
><em>**It's _not _a cruel joke, right?  
><strong>_Okay, I pondered the matter...and I decided to swerve in the direction of...well, you'll see.  
><em>**I am you! I'll see it when you see it! And you've already seen it! So why don't I see it?  
><strong>_You're quite mentally insane, aren't you? Talking to yourself...  
><em>**Oh, shut up!**

Really, sometimes I worry for my mental health. But anyways...I've left you with something to ponder on, right? Unless you've already figured it out, straight from where our favorite Elf (MAGLOR!) took that drop and a clonk to the head. Or you just know me to be the person that's sadistic and enjoys watching characters writhe in emotional pain...

_Ahem..._

Right. Let's cover a few facts.

1. I'm not sadistic.  
>2. There will be <em>somewhat<em> of a happy ending.  
>3. I'm <strong><em>not<em> **sadistic; I swear.  
>4. I'm still going to follow by the storyline of the Silmarillion - banishment to Formenos, slaying of the king, war and <em>victory<em> with that scumbag (low, dirty, lying, cheating scumbag who definitely had something shoved up his arse during playtime while all the other Valar were happily playing with stars) dark lord that doesn't deserve to be thrown into the Void until after I've beat him up with a freaking rolling pin (credit to Erestor83 for her brilliant rolling pin) and bashed him all the way from Angband and back. And see how he likes it when he's hung for a freaking long time to a freaking rock by his freaking wrist, which, by the way, will eventually fall off and shrivel and die just like his...um...well, never mind. But you get that I'm talking about Morgoth. And I'm going to continue with that storyline, up to the despair and falling apart of the brothers.


	23. Heartbreaking Congratulations

Thankfully, Silmalir and Fánamaril weren't forced to entertain a few nights of sore thighs on this visit to the palace, and Silmalir wore a plain summer dress instead of a tunic and pants, along with Fánamaril. Silmalir's hands wouldn't stop shaking, and Lady Alquasar, Aicelen, Lohtilin, and Fána stared worriedly at her before Fána understood that it was from excitement, and not illness. Then she rolled her eyes at Silmalir's antics, secretly happy that Silmalir would be seeing a happier life soon.

As soon as the carriage pulled to a stop, the door was flung open, and Fánamaril was pushing Silmalir towards the palace. Lady Alquasar and her daughters stepped out more elegantly, earning glances, appraising looks, and even gawking stars from the people around. They had not been informed of Lady Alquasar's arrival, obviously. Of course, many other carriages were pulled up to the castle, and eventually, everyone went to escort his or her charge into the palace.

"Stop fiddling with your hands!" Fána whispered to Silmalir. "I know you're excited, but you have to maintain a calm composure when you see him."

Silmalir stood still, her hands still trembling, and Fána stood behind her, as supportive as ever. Then they both stepped into the entrance of the palace and made it into the grand hall, where Fánamaril caught sight of Tyelkormo and waved him over. Tyelkormo, on sight of Silmalir, paled, but nevertheless came to stand before the two, his eyes flickering back and forth between Silmalir and an undistinguishable person.

"Fánamaril, Silmalir," he greeted, smiling. The apprehensive expression was still on his face. "Great to see you two again. Can I show you both to your rooms before - "

"Lord Kanafinwë, congratulations. Lady Calwilmë is very beautiful. She is fitting to be your wife. I assume that the wedding will be in one week's time?" said an Elf-lord. Silmalir and Fánamaril froze.

" - that happens," Tyelkormo finished with a sigh.

"What...happened." What Fána said was more of a demand, an outraged demand, instead of a question. "Why in the name of _Eru _is Makalaurë going to be wedded? To another Elf-maiden?"

Tyelkormo fidgeted under her glare. "Um...well... You see... Er... I can't really explain. It's kind of complicated..."

"Try your best," Fánamaril replied, unsympathetic.

"Well," he started to say, but was cut off by Fánamaril again.

"To _Silmalir_."

Silmalir looked into Tyelkormo's blue eyes, feeling extremely...betrayed. Her eyes showed every emotion running through her mind, and he winced when she stared at him. There was hurt, there was surprise, there was betrayal, there was shock, and there was definitely a hint of anger. But the thing that scared Tyelkormo the most was defeat. As if she was ready to give up everything after this one little admission. She had expected good news when coming to the castle, and instead, she was faced with the ground being ripped right out from under her. This was a cruel joke indeed.

And she said, very slowly, her voice quivering: "I knew this was too good to be true."

"Silmalir!" called out Maitimo's cheerful voice. "How are you - " He stopped short when he saw the expression on her face. "Um...I'm guessing you've heard the news then?"

"Yeah," answered Fánamaril. "I want to know why it wasn't mentioned in the response letter that King Finwë sent. After all, he invited us to the palace, and I was under the impression that Makalaurë was still in love with Silmalir, and would always love Silmalir only, but apparently, I was wrong. Do you mind explaining what the hell has happened before I murder Makalaurë on the spot?"

"Well, it's really complicated."

Her eyes narrowed. "Try me."

Maitimo turned to Silmalir, to try and comprehend her calm reaction, but she was standing stock-still, staring at something past Tyelkormo's shoulder. He turned his head slightly to see what he was looking at and froze. He turned away then, hissing something to Tyelkormo. Fánamaril, who didn't take too kindly to this wait, glanced over to Silmalir, who seemed too shocked to say anything. Then she followed Silmalir's line of sight and saw Makalaurë, as handsome as ever, with a golden-haired maiden at his side, speaking to his father and uncles. He looked slightly distressed. Lady Nerdanel was apparently not present at this current situation.

"Silmalir..." Fánamaril said, touching her friend's shoulder. "Look away."

Silmalir turned away, but it was to ask Maitimo the question. "Is that Lady Calwilmë?"

Maitimo searched her eyes for a moment. Then he answered.

"Yes."

* * *

><p>"I'm going to strangle him," muttered Fánamaril.<p>

"Don't," Silmalir sighed. "It's not going to help my situation anyway." She was oddly calm and collected. "Let's just tell Lady Alquasar that we'll be going back. Or something akin to that. I don't want to stay here anymore."

Her bluntness definitely had an effect on the two brothers.

"Don't leave," Tyelkormo abruptly blurted out. "We... We can somehow make this work. We'll knock sense into Makalaurë's head again. But...please...just don't go."

Silmalir smiled. "Fána would be willing to stay with you."

"What about Caranthir and Findekáno and Findaráto?" Maitimo countered, determined to get Silmalir to stay. "They miss you, and they haven't even seen you yet. At least...at least stay here for the day, before you make your decision. It's been what...one month since we've seen you? And you honestly don't reply to _any_ letters that we send..."

"I was bedridden for the entire month," Silmalir explained lamely, feeling a bitter taste on her tongue. "I'd have to sit up to write a letter, and I didn't want to sit up - "

"You couldn't even sit up," interrupted Fánamaril, who didn't appreciate the underestimation. She turned to the two. "Which is why she didn't respond to any letters."

Maitimo and Tyelkormo had similar expressions on their face - halfway between a wince and cringe. The latter said, "We had no idea - "

Of course, then Silmalir was, at the moment, conveniently tackled by little Findaráto, while Caranthir and Findekáno stood next to Fánamaril. And his voice, very clearly, was heard: "Silmalir! You're back!" This brought the entire hall's attention to Silmalir. Unfortunately, that counted for Makalaurë as well. Fánamaril, of course, had no qualms about Silmalir swearing, so she didn't react, unlike Maitimo and Tyelkormo (who both quickly clapped their hands over the elflings' ears), when Silmalir swore loud and clear. Because the entire hall was quiet, they heard every single word in the swear.

"By the trees of Yavanna." Then she smiled down at Findaráto, though the action was mechanical. "Hello, little one. I'm going to assume that you missed me dearly."

Findaráto nodded. "You left us."

"I had to." At this point, the audience paid more attention to the royal family, and allowed Silmalir to continue her conversation with the little elfling.

"You could have stayed," he insisted. "You could have married Makalaurë and stayed."

Silmalir, on mention of Makalaurë, felt her throat constrict. "I couldn't have. Not with my...current position. I am to obey Lady Alquasar, and it was under her wishes that I return to the estate. So I went."

"But...but... Grandfather said you were ill!" he protested. "It wouldn't have happened if you hadn't left the palace!" Findaráto didn't know how right he was. "Don't leave again. You'll be sick again. And I don't want you to be sick." His resolve was infinitely firm. "And...because Makalaurë can't marry you, you can marry me instead." He nodded with self-satisfaction at his improvisation.

Silmalir chuckled. "Perhaps when you are older, Findaráto."

But her happy expression faded when Findaráto and the other two elflings were led away (Caranthir and Findekáno meekly said hi to Silmalir, grinning) by their parents. Leaving Silmalir to face Makalaurë...and his soon-to-be wife. She bit her lip, wondering what she could say. _What should I say? Congratulations? _

She laughed bitterly in her mind. _Okay. I guess I'll go with congratulations, then._

She strode up to Makalaurë, and he looked down at her, looking absolutely...well...emotionless. She tried to manage a smile, but it turned into a grimace as soon as she saw Lady Calwilmë. So she dropped the smile and settled for a facial expression nothing short of what Makalaurë had. Then, Silmalir dipped her head respectfully and said, "Congratulations, Makalaurë, Lady Calwilmë. I wish you many happy years together."

If sh had looked up, she would have see that Makalaurë's eyes were filled with absolute regret. Shock. His facial emotion contorted to something near apologetic, but it wasn't clear enough. Then she turned around and quickly walked back over to Fánamaril, knowing that she'd probably just faint right now. Her knees shook with the energy to walk back, and her hands trembled. But she kept her head held up high.

* * *

><p>King Finwë watched silently as she did so, coming to the conclusion that Silmalir was definitely fazed by this discovery. He was sorry to have to have hurt this girl so much, but the sooner she cracked, the sooner the two Elves could be together. He stood slightly away from Makalaurë and Lady Calwilmë, eyeing them closely. Makalaurë was obviously trying really hard not to continuously punch the nearest wall in order to gain some amount of relief from hurting his one and only love. Or so it seemed.<p>

Then, Finwë worried for Silmalir's health. Lady Alquasar never said that she had fully recovered from whatever she had contracted. And his thoughts were proven true.

Silmalir's eyes rolled into the back of her head, and she fell forward, unconscious.

"Shite!" Tyelkormo exclaimed.

Fánamaril, who was closest, caught Silmalir before she got herself a concussion. And Makalaurë, facade forgotten and in his worry, quickly went to check on her, completely ignoring his 'betrothed.'

Finwë sighed. This wasn't going well at all. He would have to speak with his son about this. Again.

* * *

><p>Finwë eyed his son calmly. "Fëanáro...are you sure this is the right way to go about things?"<p>

Fëanáro looked up from his work - from striking metal - and frowned. "I do not wish to purposely hurt Miss Silmalir. But I cannot have her hurting Makalaurë either. I am not a sadistic person, Atar, but sometimes, things must be done, no matter how improper or inappropriate. No matter how inhumane or unethical."

"I do not doubt your love for Makalaurë, my son. But I doubt that the plan set in action will bring about good news. I presume that you have not heard about what happened in the entrance hall?"

"Do tell."

Taking a deep breath, Finwë launced into a one sentence explanation on how Silmalir calmly walked up to Makalaurë and wished him nothing but good things for many years. And when she turned back around to go back, she slumped to the ground as if hit by a death spell. Obviously, Silmalir hadn't been expecting Makalaurë to be betrothed. Finwë also told his son how he was starting to think that it was a mistake to ever deny the fact that Silmalir definitely cared for Makalaurë, and if she couldn't love him, then she would be his friend, at least.

Fëanáro turned back to the fire, shaking his head. "We shall see what happens, Atar. If Silmalir truly loves Makalaurë, she will not interfere."

"But, Fëanáro...you realise that you are hurting more than one person, right?"

When Finwë didn't get a response, he sighed and strode out of the forge, and Fëanáro turned to look at his father's retreating form.

"It never stopped _you_," he whispered. "You married her, after all."

He brought the hammer down against the metal.

* * *

><p><strong>Yes, that is me, showing Fëanáro's thoughts on the matter.<br>He loves Makalaurë. And his father. And he's...well...not so much Indis, but he doesn't absolutely _hate_ her, at least. Or he does, but doesn't show it. -_-  
>He doesn't hate Silmalir either. At least he likes her more than he likes Lady Cal-person.<strong>


	24. Love Is A Blatant Untruth

**I know you were expecting a long chapter of the minimum, and I'm sorry for this failure on my behalf, but this chapter will be the shortest in all of the chapters. You have my sincere apologies.**

* * *

><p>Silmalir couldn't believe it.<p>

Least of all, she couldn't believe that she had to hear it in conversation, as if eavesdropping on a meeting between two important lords. That really struck a chord with her pride - not to mention demeaned her fiery personality under that calm demeanor.

As she walked towards the royal family, her thoughts mostly centered around the fact that she couldn't believe that _he_ would...marry someone else. Everything he said to her - every single promise unspoken behind the tone of sincerity - ran through her mind, and she was bound to faint with all of this information being processed through her head.

_'I wasn't lying when I said I loved you.'_

_'I can only say that I love you...again.'_

_'I'm only ever going to love you.'_

_'You realise that I do love you, right?'_

There was so much more. Every sentence pertained to his love for her, and each struck a blow to her knees, ready to have her kneel in submission. And then hope was given to her as she came back to the palace - only for Silmalir to realise that it was all a lie...that he never really loved her after all...and that all those times...

It was a lie.

How did that happen?

How did it turn from friendly to fiasco?

Silmalir tried to smile when she stood in front of him, but then she saw his to-be wife and knew that she must have had changed her face into a grimace. Then she dropped expressions altogether and tried to make her voice sound sincere, at least. She owed him, for all those times that he actually made her feel worthwhile.

She wondered: Why would he do this to her? Surely he realised that she was emotionally fragile? He had a front-row seat to her incident with the dark, witness to her weakness and embarrassment. Was this... Was this retaliation?

_'I'd rather you deal out penance right now,' she said weakly._

_'...No.'_

Only now did she realise how insightful that incident was. Which Vala did she provoke this time? Morgoth himself?

"Congratulations, Makalaurë, Lady Calwilmë." She made up a blessing on the spot. "I wish you many happy years together."

She spun around, not daring to meet Makalaurë's eyes, walking away stiffly and quickly. It was like saying goodbye all over again, painful and tediously annoying. She almost made it, really, when pain shot up her spine and made the world spin and go black. This reminded Silmalir of the time that she had stupidly tried to jump over a short wall, and ended up feeling like her face was going to became pancake-shaped.

The last thing she heard was Tyelkormo swear as Fánamaril caught her.

* * *

><p><strong>Okay. Yeah. This is crappy. I know. I started school four days ago, on the first of August, which sucks, so I will try to manage with the updates. Typical of one of my teachers to give me a project on the first day. <strong>

**I mean to continue this story into a shorter, well, more better ending by making a 'post-fiasco of the palace' story, in which Silmalir and Makalaurë get some amount of happiness. As for Crackers, it doesn't _exactly_ continue into the Years of the Sun, but I'll try my best.**

**And I'm sorry this was such a short chapter, but I had to write from Sil's point of view...and she fainted afterwards. So...yeah.**


	25. You're Taking Everything from Her!

**Note:** This is Fánamaril's perspective.

I decided to give one of my favorite characters some of the glory.

**Out of all the characters overall, I'd say that I'm most like her, because she's deviously funny, despite the fact that she barely gets any showtime here. I've honestly let Silmalir and Makalaurë hog the spotlight.**

**Enjoy this chapter.**

* * *

><p>Of all the things to do when arriving at the palace, of course Silmalir had to faint. I would not have blamed her. I did not, in fact, blame her, because at the moment, I was about to entertain the blame of defacing Lady Calwilmë. Naturally, I wouldn't actually do it - then I would have been sent to the dungeons to live out my life, chained to the rotting walls of the palace underground. In my right mind, I would not attack another person.<p>

Of course, I was not in my right mind.

Seeing Makalaurë, or the prospect of seeing him, had excited me, but upon seeing him, all excitement vanished to be replaced by (and I kid you not) a Valarauko. If I saw him in the hallway, and no one was looking, I would have dragged him over the Mindon and thrown him off of it.

I sat by Silmalir's bedside - funny how she always ends up bedridden - and placed my head in my hands, sighing. After catching her, I had completely panicked, and when Makalaurë had come over, I was ready to fully disfigure his handsome face. I was normally unviolent, but Silmalir's reaction, his deed, and my short emotional capacity of a mouse tail had caused me to explode.

Instead of punching him, I had simply set down Silmalir and turned to Tyelkormo. He raised an eyebrow at me, worry evident on his face as his eyes flickered from Silmalir to me to Makalaurë. My fist was clenched, and he didn't look to excited about the prospect of what would happen. Then I punched Tyelkormo and took Silmalir to the infirmary, leaving behind a shocked Hall full of Elves.

Okay. I realise that it was extremely stupid to punch Tyelkormo, because a) I thought that since Silmalir couldn't be happy with Makalaurë, I'd cut off any times with Tyelkormo, b) I didn't want to punch Makalaurë, because he looked really regretful, and c) I had panicked, and if I didn't exert my anger soon, I was about to black out as well.

I didn't apologise to him yet.

I hadn't walked out of the room because I was too ashamed to apologise, even though a small part of me didn't actually regret it...

In truth, I felt a bit of satisfaction when I felt him stumble back, the blow unexpected. I felt satisfaction when I saw Makalaurë's shocked expression.

_On top of that_, I refused to let Makalaurë, Maitimo, and Tyelkormo in to see her, and King Finwë would have had to have asked Lord Manwë himself to allow his grandsons pardon. This was all their fault, in some way, but I just couldn't pinpoint the reason.

Maybe it was me being unfair and frustrated and helpless.

For once, as I stared at Silmalir's unmoving body, I wished that she would stop getting hurt all the time. Elves weren't supposed to get hurt. Elves possessed more grace, and Silmalir had been born with it. I saw her when she was younger (as we had been friends even then), flitting about the house. It was only after meeting Makalaurë that she'd suddenly gotten...

_No_. _No way in the Void!_

I jumped up out of the seat and flung myself out of the room, slamming the door shut behind me. I stormed down the hallway, ignoring the glances shot my way. Despite the fact that I used to be able to find every son of Fëanáro at the end of every single hallway in this palace, I couldn't now. I navigated my way through the mazes and at last came to a stop before Makalaurë's chambers.

Do not even _ask_ me how I know where it is. I, in fact, know where Maitimo and Tyelkormo reside as well, and so does Silmalir.

Knocking, I flung open the door, ironically, and stomped inside, shooting every single inhabitant of the room a dark glare. Those inhabitants just so happened to be Calwilmë, sitting innocently (her face sad) in an armchair, while Makalaurë and Tyelkormo were standing, both stopping whatever they had both been doing. Apparently, they had been shouting. I glared at the both of them. And then I rounded on Makalaurë.

"You. You! Ever since Silmalir met you, she's been having horrible luck! She always gets hurt, always ends up in a bed unconscious! Why in the name of Aman and all of its residents does that happen? I realise that it's been unintentional all those other times, but this time, it was obviously _your fault_! You lied to her! You said that you - you loved her, you said you would come back for, you _didn't _come back for her, you did _something _while she was gone, and now - now - you're - _getting_ - MARRIED!"

I had lost control of my voice and shouted at the second son of the Crown Prince. I honestly wasn't sure why I had just put that into perspective, but it only made my impending doom throb even more heartily.

Makalaurë took this all in stride, looking at me with only an expression of slight pain. "You don't understand."

"Then, pray tell, you explain! You _should_ explain, because if this continues to happen, Silmalir's going to die from going unconscious all the time! She spends most of her time asleep than awake nowadays! She hasn't gotten up to eat in the past few months, and I've had to force-feed her so she won't die from lack of nutrition! And it's because of you!

"If she hadn't cared so much, so much that even a lump of festing orc-shite would have fitted to represent how much, she would be awake, smiling, laughing, and she would be happy! YOU TOOK THAT AWAY FROM HER! YOU'RE TAKING EVERYTHING AWAY FROM HER!" I finally screamed. I had finally cracked. My voice quieted, and I sobered. "I don't need to understand to realise that she's dying, slowly, on the inside."

"Fánamaril - " began Tyelkormo.

"You were in on this too, weren't you? When King Finwë sent the letter, you knew all about how Makalaurë was getting married. I can't believe it. I can't believe that you would let him throw away everything that they had, everything that they could have, and everything they should have had! I was right in punching you!"

His expression was unbelievably sad and hurt that I almost wanted to take back everything I said. The image of Silmalir asleep, tears flowing down her cheeks, flashed across my eyes. I hardened against any regret. Then I walked out the door, growling under my breath as I thought to calm myself with castrating the both of them.

Instead of going back to Silmalir's bed, I walked out into the gardens, sitting down on a bench. I had originally intended to give Makalaurë a good scolding, apologise to Tyelkormo, and knock sense into that princely head of the groom. Then I came to the conclusion that it had all been Makalaurë's fault and ditched that plan at the last moment.

This hadn't gone the way I planned at all.

* * *

><p>"You know, if you stay out here too long, you'll attract bugs."<p>

"I don't care. Go away."

"Fánamaril..."

"I don't want to talk to your family members. Or any of your family, for that matter. The only ones whom I'll maintain a decent conversation with are Findaráto, Caranthir, and Findekáno right now. So...go away."

Maitimo sighed. "Makalaurë really loves Silmalir."

"Could have fooled me."

"No, Fánamaril, he really does. I can't explain it, and I'm not allowed to tell you why, but you have to trust me. Makalaurë would sooner fling himself off of Taniquetil than truly marry Lady Calwilmë."

I turned around, calm. "If he really does, he wouldn't have gone through with any marriage of the sort. If it was because their love was forbidden, then that is absolute shite. Silmalir was willing to become something she absolutely did not want to become - a noble - if that's what it took to be with him. How the hell did he ended up wedded to some random Elf-lady that came from Taniquetil? How do you expect me to believe that he loves her if he's going to marry someone else? At this rate, Silmalir's going to give up and go back to working with Lady Alquasar until the end of time."

I could have been mistaken, but a look of panic flashed through Maitimo's eyes. "No! You can't let her give up."

"Do you suggest that I continue to let her bring the knife to flesh then? You're not in the position, and neither am I, to judge her right now. If I was her, I would have left a long time ago, punching him right in the face."

"Well, you did punch Tyelkormo."

"He deserved it."

"How? I thought it was Makalaurë whom you currently were annoyed at."

"He was in on the plan too. And you know what, I bet you are too. Which brings me back to my point of not talking with any of the royal family except for the three I have already named." I brought my legs up and tucked my knees under my chin, sighing. "Leave me alone."

"May I at least have permission to see Silmalir?"

His voice sounded so broken that it was hard not to give in. This boy had more charm than his brothers did.

"Fine," I said grudgingly, anger ebbing out by the gallon. "But if she wakes up, you better not spout any 'Makalaurë still loves you' shite. She's not going to believe it, and quite frankly, I'm not sure I believe it either."

There was a sigh of relief, but I fixed my eyes on the golden sky. "Thank you, Fánamaril. Everything will be alright soon."

I closed my eyes. _How?_

* * *

><p><strong>I don't want you to automatically think that Fánamaril is hot-headed by temperament. She's simply adjusting to the fact that Silmalir is <em>not<em> going to be living a happy life, and the only way she can cope is to take it out on those who rightfully deserve it. She's a gentle person, really, with sarcasm at her good moments. Fánamaril was based somewhat on my ragged personality, even though I have absolutely no romantic inclinations towards Tyelkormo.**

**I think it was hard, trying to write emotion in small words.**

**Makalaurë: immense pain and torture  
>Tyelkormo: shock, sadness, and a bit of hope<br>Maitimo: firmness, sadness, and a little bit of the leadership side that holds everyone together**

This story is actually coming to a close, but fear not! Because there is a continuation of it, following the banishment to Formenos, and the Silmarils!

**Postscript: **Silma_lir_, Silma_ril_. Cool, right? I didn't realise it till the end.

By the by, if I haven't updated in a long time, then I will try to make the next chapter even longer. Somehow. Really, sometimes I hate myself for procrastinating so much. Stupid projects, stupid essays, stupid prep. This chapter is longer, thankfully, than the last one. Chapter 24 really brings me to shame here. I didn't even hit past one thousand words.

**Besides that, please do drop a note by means of pressing the button down there! It happens to be in blue print, and Verdana, font size 9. I think. **


	26. Set Free?

**Hello, everyone! All of you who are reading, reviewers and non-reviewers, should know that Twisted Version of Cinderella is a very light-hearted romance that turns into...drama. Eventually, I _will_ have to change the genre, and all that good stuff, but it will definitely remain in the 'T' rating. **

**I may not be capable of writing fornication (ew...), but I can really write gruesome details. Of course, I'm not going to kill Silmalir in this story. That would be mean. It will be dramatic.**

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><p>Silmalir almost expected to wake up back at the estate, preparing to face another grueling day of maintaining pain. She turned on her side and sighed, staring pointlessly at the headboard of the bed. Then, she distinctly saw red in her peripheral, and her eyes flickered over to it. Maitimo.<p>

Thinking this to be a dream, she turned on her side and closed her eyes, thinking over and over again, '_This is a dream, this is a dream. this is dream...'_

Footsteps pattered around her bed and came to a stop before her. Silmalir opened one eye and blinked in surprise when she saw immense sadness in Maitimo's face. She opened her other eye and stared at him. He looked down at her, face contorted with sorrow, and his eyes were filled with regret and apology as he looked earnestly at her. For a moment, Silmalir almost envisioned Makalaurë in his place, worry placed clearly on his face like an open book. Then her heart clenched, and she shut her eyes, rolling onto her back and making the mattress move.

"Silmalir."

"Maitimo."

"I'm sorry."

She tried to sit up at this, unconsciously (at least), because of the initial surprise and confusion. Maitimo helped her, and she leaned against the headboard, head tilted to the side. "Why are you apologising? Did you go off drinking with your family again?"

He rolled his eyes. "No. You fainted."

Oh. Right. "I guess I did," she said calmly. "But I did wish him good cheer, right?"

"Yes, but Fánamaril punched Tyelkormo and screamed at Makalaurë," said Maitimo uncertainly. "She was quite...unhappy with what happened, and forbade any of us from entering your room..."

"But you are here right now."

"For some wicked reason, she allowed me to visit you."

Silmalir closed her eyes. "Ah. Why are you here?"

"To tell you that - well, Fánamaril says I should save the cheerful speech, because there's a high chance of you not believing it."

"Try me."

"Makalaurë still loves you."

Her eyes opened slowly, and her face was expressionless. Maitimo didn't know what to expect from her as a reaction; knowing Silmalir, she would be unpredictable. If it had been another woman, like Mother (for example), she would have spoken out against the statement with an even tone. And knowing Father, she had a lot of practice in maintaining an even tone.

She glanced at him before her eyes flickered down to the hands in her lap. "Then why is he getting married to someone else?"

Maitimo felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. She had reacted _just_ like Mother. "Because he...has to." It was really hard not to give away some but not all, unless giving away some and all at the same time. "It's really, _really_ hard to explain..."

"Save the explanations, Maitimo. Maybe he really doesn't love me anymore and found someone better. It doesn't matter to me."

The sinking feeling turned into a gaping hole. Maitimo blinked at her. She wasn't supposed to say that. She was _not_ supposed to say that at all. If she truly gave up, then Makalaurë would actually, and truly, lose her forever.

Silmalir looked up at Maitimo again and saw immense distress in his eyes. "What's wrong?"

Immediately, he leaned forward and took her hand in his, grey eyes wide and pleading. "Don't say that. Don't ever say that. Don't give up on him, Silmalir, or you might really lose him. Please don't. I have no intention of having Calwilmë as a sister-in-law, so you have to fight back for me. If not for you, then for Caranthir, and Findekáno, and Findaráto."

"Makalaurë is a very sensible person, Maitimo. He would know what he is doing. I'm sure he made the right choice in settling for Lady Calwilmë." _She was really giving up!_ Maitimo thought, groaning mentally. "If he's going to wed her, then he should. He's not the type of person to say yes because he couldn't say no."

_But that's exactly the point!_ Maitimo let go of her hand and sat back in the nearest chair, shutting his eyes and rubbing his temples. _He can't say no. Damn it._

"He wouldn't marry Lady Calwilmë if he didn't love her. If he does, then I won't stand in the way. I don't want to be the reason why he can't live without regret, you know. It's really for the best, no matter what." She sounded like she was trying to convince herself instead. "You'll understand, Maitimo."

He opened his eyes and almost gaped at Silmalir. "You—are you serious?"

"I can't tie him down to me—"

"You have to!"

She looked at him very firmly. "But I shouldn't, because I should give him freedom to do whatever he wants. It is not as if I own him."

"Trust me; you do," Maitimo replied with just as much confidence as before. "You own every part of him, from his fingertips to the corners of his heart. And the rest. But that's not the point. Is it because you don't love him anymore? Did seeing Calwilmë cause you to give up?"

Silmalir's face crumpled. "I-I couldn't _not_ love him. I'm doing this _because_ I love him. You'll understand, when you find someone you love, Maitimo. One you want to sacrifice everything for. And that means happiness too. Tell me, Maitimo... If the only way your loved one could be truly be happy is if you were out of their life, could you live with that decision?"

"Definitely not."

She sighed. "I would."

"But he doesn't want you out of his life."

"All of the _nobles_ approve of Lady Calwilmë," replied Silmalir, adding scorn to the word _nobles_. "I am but a servant. They would never think well of me. I'm the representation of the lower class, and my relationship with Makalaurë is the representation of a failure between interaction of nobles and the lower class. Your mother may have been the daughter of a smith, Maitimo, but Mahtan is a very respected individual in Aman; therefore, she is respected as well."

Maitimo shook his head. "Silmalir..."

Silmalir closed her eyes, a frown on her face. Tendrils of dark hair had moved to cover her face, but she paid it no mind and silently sat there. Maitimo stood, waiting for her next response. She did pose a good argument, but it was uneffective because she did not have all the details of what had happened after she left. Then, she opened her eyes, and for a moment, Maitimo almost saw a flash of uncertainty, as if unsure if her next action was correct.

The look in her eyes disappeared, and she spoke. "Maybe I just can't take anymore pain then, Maitimo. Maybe that's it. Maybe I _want_ to give up."

Maitimo felt as if the world had ended, and the beginning of the apocalype had started. The ground suddenly seemed nearer than it had been, and he felt as if disconnected from his body. "...What?"

"I cannot do it anymore."

He blinked lamely. "Silmalir, you do not truly mean that, do you?"

She looked at him emotionlessly.

The dreaded two words came out of her mouth.

"I do."

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><p>Fánamaril meandered back to Silmalir's chambers, hand extending towards the door knob. Suddenly, the door knob flew away from her, and the door was flung open as Maitimo stumbled out, eyes wide with disbelief. She inspected him closely as the door swung closed again, and she saw that he was in a temporary state of shock. In his eyes, though, there was sorrow and immense turmoil. He stopped moving and stood there, in the hallway with her.<p>

He shook his head. "She... She has given up."

Her eyes widened. "_What?_ I know that I told you not to tell her that Makalaurë still loved her! How did it turn into _that?_ I didn't think she would really give up! Please tell me you're joking. Please tell me this is just payback for my punching Tyelkormo. Please. This must be a joke."

"This is no joke from me to you."

"Then _she_ must be joking."

"I tried to reason with her that she was joking."

Fánamaril wringed her hands and was prepared to step inside of the room. Despite her initial (and everlasting) thoughts on Makalaurë's sudden marriage to someone _other than Silmalir_, she didn't think that Silmalir should give up. In fact, she thought Silmalir should have given it for all its worth to make Calwilmë's life absolutely horrible—as if the latter were a replacement. Then again, Silmalir wasn't the type of person to do that.

Maitimo placed a restraining hand on her shoulder. "Let her brood about her thoughts. Perhaps, she will come to the conclusion that she still loves him after all."

Fánamaril bowed her head and closed her eyes. Silmalir was not the type to give up so easily unless the situation was absolutely hopeless, and this situation could easily have been taken care of by Maitimo and Tyelkormo. Then she looked up and frowned. "She still does."

"Then why..."

"Because, sometimes, if you truly love someone, you have to set them free," said Fánamaril, biting her lip.

"What if you love them too much to set them free? It would be too painful, Fánamaril."

She smiled. "I understand now. Maitimo, she still loves him."

"Fánamaril," Maitimo began.

"No, Maitimo, listen. If you really love someone, you're willing to go through all sorts of pain. Do you have someone whom you love?"

"My family."

She gave him an odd look that he returned with a beffudled one. "Maitimo, I mean, as in someone you adore and care for. One whom you wish to spend the rest of your life with, because he or she has become a permanent fixture in your life."

"No."

"Exactly. Silmalir, who has suddenly been struck with an epiphany, knows that she has to let Makalaurë go, because she really loves him. She simply will not stand to be in the way of his happiness, though she wants to be the cause of that happiness. In other words, she is willing to release him from his prior 'relationship,' because of the fact that he has moved on."

"He has absolutely _not_ moved on."

"He's marrying the Calwilmë lady. How do you know that is not moving on?"

"Because he still loves her."

"That doesn't make sense. Silmalir is going through all of this pain because she loves him. He doesn't seem like he is going through _any _pain, and he is the _cause_ of _her_ pain. You can elaborate further, Maitimo. I want to know why, exactly, marriage to another Elf would be considered as loving Silmalir. Loneliness is horrible, Maitimo, and she has been through it in childhood, isolated because she was the daughter of Lady Alquasar's late husband and his even later wife.

"She was his first child - how do you think it feels like to be overlooked because your father married a second woman and had even more children? And then your father abruptly faded out of your life, and you were left with your step-mother and step-siblings. It does not feel comfortable, and it hurts. This is what she is willing to go through, if that is what it takes to bring Makalaurë happiness."

"It won't. He would never be happy with her purposely inflicting pain on herself," Maitimo replied calmly, knowing it to be the truth.

"Well, how do you know?" she demanded, finally at the point of patience. "How do _you_ know that he wouldn't be happy? How would you know if he even gave another thought about her after seeing 'Lady Calwilmë?'"

"Because he is going through torture right now, and I can see it in his eyes when he is not facing you or Silmalir."

"Then who do you think is suffering worse?"

"Well, Silmalir would win that hands-down," said Maitimo, as if hesitant. "But Makalaurë sees her pain, and that is what truly makes him suffer even more, because he knows it is utterly his fault."

"So you are saying..."

"Their pains are unmeasureable."

Fánamaril's eyes narrowed. "Good answer. Now, go check on your brothers. It is almost in the noon - and it will not be the last that Silmalir has seen happiness. I think I will choose to believe you, for once, though I do not know why I will. Though, if she ends up hurt, I will never forgive you, Tyelkormo, Makalaurë, your father, your uncles, and your grandfather."

She strode into the room, closing the door behind her. Maitimo's excellent hearing permitted him to the sound of a click, and he sighed.

"I wouldn't forgive any of us either," he mumbled quietly as he walked down the hall.

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><p><strong>Well, well, and well. I suppose this story will hit the thirties after all. <strong>**It is definitely coming soon to an end. And then, I _will_ write a prologue for the next story! So, be glad, all of you people waiting for the next chapter to read! I love you all on a strictly platonic level. Do not get angry at Makalaurë. That is all I can say.**

All I can say is that the quote which Fánamaril's insightful line is derived from is: "If you love someone, set them free. If they come back, they're yours; if they don't, they never were."  
>That is very insightful, to me, and I really love themes that express emotion, though I may not be the best at expressing them myself.<p>

**Anyyywaaayssss. That's all. **

**Drop a review in the review box!**


	27. Tyelkormo's Anger

**Note:** This contains Tyelkormo's temper.

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><p>Silmalir was relaxing in the tea room, sitting on the bay window seat while leaning against the glass of the window. The room was alabastor and ivory, with intricate golden patterns dotting along the imbedded supports in the walls. Her eyes flickered from the empty chair to the pristine walls, and she sighed. Yesterday made it onto her Top Ten Hardest Days of Life. Though Makalaurë had not heard her selfish (and fake) confession of being unable to endure anymore, she felt as if she were being unfaithful.<p>

That was ironic, when he was the one getting married to another.

She sighed and tilted her head back slightly, meeting the window pane. After washing, which made her (admittedly) feel much better, Fánamaril led her to this room that happened to be nearby, despite Silmalir's protests of being able to go by herself.

Then again, worry was natural, especially with one in the situation that Silmalir was in.

Where she was sitting, the door to the farthest right from her position had opened, and in stepped a familiar golden-haired Elf-lady. Silmalir blinked.

"Lady Calwilmë." Her voice was expressionless, devoid of any annoyance at this Elf-lady's appearance. She hid it well. "Greetings."

Lady Calwilmë simply sat down in a chair, without invitation, glancing at Silmalir every now and then. "Lady Silmalir—"

"I am not a Lady," Silmalir interrupted her, correcting her slight mistake. "I am simply Silmalir. I am no noble."

She smiled. "Alright. I came here, upon short notice, because I wanted to get to know you better. You are a very respected person in this palace, Silmalir. Many speak of you as a good-natured Elf, and the younger sons of the princes adore you. Lord Findaráto has claimed that he will marry you, because my betrothed will not." Silmalir resisted the urge to run out of the room at the statement. "I think that my betrothed still loves you."

Silmalir faltered in her mask of reserve. "I—that's not true. He doesn't."

"I believe that he still does."

"Maybe your belief is wrong. Now let us speak of another subject."

Lady Calwilmë sighed. "Very well. What do you think of infidelity?"

Silmalir raised an eyebrow. "What do _you_ think of infidelity?"

"Well... With infidelity, you have fallen out of love with one person, and fallen into love with another. If restraining yourself is against natural laws, then should you not be more open-minded to doing things without a certainty to it? If you were to make this one decision and never be able to turn back on it, would that not be unfair? Infidelity is what some Elves turn to when they do not have another choice. They make another one."

"It is sick. You have bound yourself to one person; you cannot truly love another. If you force yourself to, that is against all natural laws, saying that you are free-willed. You have forced yourself to love one whom you do not truly love, and you have lost the one you truly do love. How can you win in a situation of infidelity, if you did not create it in reason for your own content?" Silmalir said. "How can you create infidelity, when you know that you hurt yourself?"

"Surely...King Finwë—"

"He has been granted pardon. But I do not agree as much. I may have a father, with circumstances similar to King Finwë's, and I have never excused what he has done. I have loved him like a daughter would, but I never truly forgave him for doing that. For isolating me as a remnant of my mother, and an awkward stick in the mud. I do not truly belong."

Lady Calwilmë frowned. "You were the first love of Lord Kanafinwë."

"Why do you not call him Makalaurë?" Silmalir asked instead of dignifying the last statement with a respond. "You both are getting married, and it would be natural for you to call him by his _amilessë_." Her tone was calm and quiet, and there was no mockery in her words, despite Calwilmë's sudden blatant statement.

Lady Calwilmë seemed to hesitate before responding. "Well, I prefer to call him by his _ataressë. _I haven't known him for very long."

Silmalir's eyes narrowed, and she had this aching suspicion in her heart. "How long have you known him?"

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><p>Calwilmë didn't know Silmalir too well, so she did not know what would offend her, what would annoy her, and what would cause suspicion in her. After Silmalir cracked the question of the dreaded 'how long have you known your love,' she knew that she would not have an answer. So, she simply went with the truth of what had happened.<p>

"I met him one day in court," Calwilmë began. "It wasn't too far from this date, but he had stormed in, interrupting King Finwë's court. You see, my father is one of the advisors." Catching the bored look on Silmalir's face, she continued. "He had started to request for something, or someone, and then he met me, and I met him. I guess it started there. That is what Prince Fëanáro presumed. He thinks it was premature love that blossomed into marriage."

She didn't know how much the answer revealed to Silmalir, false and true.

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><p>Silmalir gripped the wood beneath her, face pale. Then, there was a crack, and the piece of wood splintered off, leaving a palm-sized chunk of the bay window bench in her right hand. To top it all off, her hand was bleeding. Her eyes went from her hand to Calwilmë's face, to check if she was speaking the truth. When there was absolutely nothing to discern, Silmalir felt as if she had been hit with a rampaging Nahar.<p>

She stood up stiffly and stalked over to the door, dropping the chunk of wood onto the floor. She flung the door open and walked outside, but Calwilmë saw the look on Silmalir's face.

Shock.

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><p>Maitimo walked down the hallway, sighing. The conversation with Fánamaril had left his head ringing with questions. What was love, in the mature sense of romance? He never did have any experience with it, after all. The only love he had ever given was strictly on a platonic level.<p>

He was about to turn the corner, into another hallway, when he saw a familiar figure walking down the hallway, something dripping off of the left hand. The Elf was dark-haired, and from the angle, it would have seemed that it was a she with dark, stone grey eyes. Maitimo immediately recognised her as Silmalir and quickly caught up to her.

Her face was stony, as if set with a marble of great reserve. She did not speak, and her breathing was quieted greatly as the fist at her wrist bled with red. Maitimo cast his eyes at her hand, surprised that she was bleeding.

"Silmalir, you are bleeding."

"I know," came her cold reply.

Maitimo blinked. "Did you...do something to your hand?"

She simply raised it up for him to see, and he saw chips of wood, including a giant chunk of it, embedded in her skin. Obviously, in a moment of great anger, she used all of the emotion built up and ended up tearing wood from its original place. Then, she said, "You lied to me, Maitimo."

"I...lied to you?" All of the possibilities that he had lied to Silmalir ran through his head, despite the fact that he hadn't. "When?"

Her eyes made Maitimo feel a little bit apprehensive. "He doesn't really love me. After all, he would have at least have had the decency to fall in love a few months after I left—but, no. He has fallen in love the day I left, and I really cannot forget that, no matter how much time I am given. How do you still believe that he loves me, when it's very clear that he stopped the day I left? That day was a symbol of hope, shattered, with the hammer laying poised above it."

Maitimo's eyes widened. He hadn't heard about _that_ part. "Who told you that?"

"Your brother's precious wife."

"And when did you meet her?"

"She came into the room. She said that she wanted to get to know me better, as she had said, and we started talking about things. Then I noticed that she called him by his _ataressë_, and she explained that she didn't know him for very long. I was then prompted to ask her how long...and she told me."

Maitimo's expression hardened. "She was lying," he declared harshly. "Don't believe it. Not even Makalaurë would be that...careless."

"How can I not believe it," she said, "when all evidence is geared towards it?"

"You have to try. You may never be ever to forgive any of us, especially Makalaurë. I don't think I can forgive that, but it does not mean that I do not forgive _him._ But he truly loves you still, and not even Lady Calwilmë's sudden appearance can take that away from you. At least hold on to the fact that we all think he still loves you, because he does."

Silmalir didn't respond.

They walked silently down the hallway, and Silmalir's mind ran over the conversation with Lady Calwilmë again. Was it really true? Maitimo had said that she had been lying, and Silmalir certainly trusted Maitimo more than she trusted Makalaurë's wife. She sighed and made a right, not watching where she was going when - a hand suddenly yanked her back by the elbow, and she stumbled backwards, blinking. Her head quickly turned, and she saw Maitimo, looking at her disapprovingly.

She turned to see what she had been about to walk into. A beam.

"Your third time," Maitimo noted.

Silmalir turned to him. "You should have let me walk into it," she simply said, turning into the corner and down the next hallway. "It would have saved me so much trouble if I had fallen unconscious upon impact."

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><p>"Makalaurë," said Maitimo, his voice laid thick with disappointment, as he entered his brother's rooms.<p>

But Makalaurë was not there. Instead, in the armchair of his room which Mother usually occupied sat Lady Calwilmë, who looked as if she had finished crying. Maitimo felt a small pang of sympathy, but then he remembered Silmalir. No such sympathy existed. He twisted the corners of his mouth down into a foreboding frown. Calwilmë looked up and sighed. Her eyes were filled with little pools of water still, and her face showed that she had made a big mistake.

"Have you come to scream at me too?"

Maitimo's eyes narrowed. "I wouldn't be surprised if someone else did." His voice was neither sympathetic nor unsympathetic. It was simply...a monotonous tone. "I will not scream at you, because I do not want to waste my voice on the tedious task. Where did Makalaurë go?"

She blinked, as if expecting him to start yelling at her. "He left to think. When I told him what happened between Silmalir and I, he lost control." She gestured to the lyre, which now lay dented on the bed. It had obviously hit Makalaurë's headboard. "He wouldn't hurt anyone, I know, but it was a little scary. He didn't say anything and left..."

"I'm surprised he did not kill you right off the bat," replied Maitimo. "But he is not the type of person to do that."

Calwilmë looked down at her hands. "Then Lord Turcafinwë came, hearing of the news from a disgruntled Kanafinwë...and he screamed. He absolutely raged about, pacing around the room. His eyes were burning angrily, and he continously tugged at his hair."

_"I told you not to make contact with her!"_

_"What?"_

_"You should have enough common sense to know that Silmalir will hurt when she sees you!"_

_Realisation struck in Calwilmë's mind. "Oh."_

_"'_Oh?' _Just a simple _'oh?' _How the hell did you end up as Makalaurë's fake wife? Do you realise what you _implied_ when you told her about the 'meeting in the court?' Why did you seek her? Why did you even bother to see her when she fainted after seeing you and my brother together? How did you expect she would take it? She's probably fallen unconscious again, and will be missing! Goodness, wait till Fánamaril comes - she won't even have an ounce of mercy in her! She already thinks you have stolen her friend's lover! She'll flay you and willingly take the punishment for it!"_

_Calwilmë was ready to argue back. After all, she had been quite offended. "How was I supposed to know? I wasn't well informed!"_

_"THAT'S EXACTLY WHY YOU SHOULDN'T HAVE BECOME HIS FAKE WIFE! SOMEONE ELSE WOULD HAVE AT LEAST KNOWN NOT TO MAKE IT WORSE - AND UNINTENTIONALLY TOO! THAT TAKES PURE SKILL TO MANAGE TO HURT SOMEONE SUBCONSCIOUSLY!" His voice lowered. "Why did Father ever decide to meddle in his relationships?"_

_He stormed out of the room, glaring at Calwilmë as he exited._

_As the result of this was burned into her mind, she sat back down in the chair, sapped of energy. Unwillingly, the tears came sprung forth, but she glared ahead at the door, from where Tyelkormo had exited._

_"CURSE THIS!" she heard him yell from outside the door. _

_He must have been far down the hallway, but his anger had been great. There was a noise of something being struck heavily, and Calwilmë didn't move one bit, knowing that it must have been the wall. She glared heavily at the door, still, adamant to stare until the door erupted into a conflagration of flames._

Maitimo looked at her coolly. She did not expect pity. "Where is Makalaurë?"

"The gardens," Calwilmë replied sadly.

He simply walked out of the door, like the many brothers before him, but not before there was a tiny 'I'm sorry' from where Calwilmë should have been. Maitimo gave a sharp nod as acknowledgement and closed the door behind him, continuing on his way to find his brother.

* * *

><p><strong>For a moment, I made Calwilmë look extremely abused. I am sorry. I will never do that again. It brings my characters too close to Mary-Sue level (despite the fact that some of them might already be..but anyways), and I really don't like to do that. Of course, that is Tyelkormo's legendary temper.<strong>

**Oh, and if you're wondering about the fact that Silmalir is completely emotionless, I'll explain it later.**

**(Re-edited note: **I have re-edited it...so she looks less like a wimp. I think she still looks like one, but really, you should be able to tell. I really need to stick to my own level of writing... One character is complex enough. I've never tried writing so many people at once. Okay, enough ot that. Either way, tell me what you think on this!)


	28. Get a Healer

**(Note:** This contains _my_ talk of _my_ failure of my story.**)**

**I honestly, honestly _hate_ Chapter 27. The way I wrote it absolutely sucked butt. Silmalir, as one of my faithful reviewers told me, was definitely not that realistic. And what with all of the characterisations, I'm pretty sure it's true. This is why I will now give a full account of how she ticks, because everyone needs to understand how she feels.**

Silmalir is a calm, level-headed person. She can be absolutely cold when she wants to, and when she is toneless, you can count it as mocking. She is a warm-hearted person, though, and she's very kind. For some reason, I feel that she's almost got a dose of manic depression. Her swings are really low, but she will snap under too much pressure. She is the part of my personality that stemmed from being ignored and being isolated and misunderstood.

_I don't know where I'm going with this, to be honest. I think that the more I write, the less I understand this story. And some of you don't even have to listen to my useless talk about how I don't understand myself, but it's nice to know someone at least knows._

Silmalir, in the last chapter, faced Maglor's fake wife, under the impression that he was actually going to marry this fake wife. Despite how Calwilmë is labeled - Makalaurë's new wife, lover-stealing bimbo - Silmalir isn't prejudiced, and she would look past that. She mostly blames herself for letting Makalaurë get close to her anyway. I know that I didn't put enough of Silmalir's emotions in their, so her personality is kind of masked. But trust me on this. It may not fit, but not everything goes into proportion. Silmalir felt annoyance at seeing Calwilmë. That's definite. But she hides it until the very end, where she loses control and kills wood. She was analyzing Calwilmë, and she ended up coming up with the horrible epiphany that Maglor never really loved her anyway.

**So...it's complicated. To me. It may be very easy to understand from far away, but it's really complicated in my brain.**

* * *

><p><strong>As you have probably noticed by now...I like to have pretty big paragraphs (one or two, at the least) on each chapter, because I find one-line descriptions a bit...well, not enough. I like descriptions, though my imagination can make up something just as well, but it's nice to have a general idea of what the <em>author<em> wants you to envision in our mind. I want you to see what I see, and see things that I don't see as well, because sometimes, I'll put symbolism in there that I didn't even mean to have.**

Ironic, because I don't have a description of Fëanor's forge, but I'll try to describe it sooner or later, in either Fánamaril or Silmalir's perspective.

Either way, I'm telling you this now, so you don't ask, 'How the heck do you know all these Eldar customs and crap?'  
>Truth be told, I <em>don't<em>. I know that infidelity is frowned upon. I know one Elf only takes another _one_ Elf as their spouse. Except Finwë. And in my story, Silmalir's father.  
>I have made it to where when childbirth occurs, the man stands outside waiting instead, out of respect of privacy for the woman. I suppose that's how they did it back then, but I don't remember too much about my history lessons. Anyways, I see it as a woman going through this battle of strength, and the man needs to step back from this because it's <em>her<em> fight, and she can fight it herself.

Sorry about my babbling! I'm so...theme-based!

**(I know this is supposed to be at the bottom, but I rarely read anything at the bottom of any story - ignore the fact that I put some stuff there each time - though it is wrong to think that everyone is like me. But it's my habit.)**

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><p>Nerdanel sat in the forge, silently fanning herself as she gazed at Fëanáro worked. The baby was to be due some time this week, but with all of the stress in the palace, she hadn't quite been thinking about the delivery of the baby. She had visited Makalaurë earlier that day, and he had been sleeping in the gardens, on one of the benches. Only he, when extremely distressed, would try and sleep it off to make himself feel better.<p>

"Fëanáro, are you sure this is the right thing to do?" she asked uncertainly.

He looked up from the designs that he was sketching and raised an eyebrow. "Is there something wrong with the design?"

She pushed down the need to roll her eyes. "No. I am speaking of your plan to make Silmalir prove what she does not need to prove."

Fëanáro frowned. "There is a reason why I do all of this, Nerdanel. I do not find it amusing to hurt others purposefully. But I want to be sure that she loves Makalaurë, and Makalaurë only. I know it is awfully ironic, since I have made him portray an unfaithful air, but I am willing to take all of the blame for it."

"If Silmalir gives up, will Makalaurë not detest you forever?"

"If she loves him, she won't give up," he replied. "And if he detests me forever, as he most likely already does, I will live with it, because I can still love him."

"Maitimo told me that Silmalir was going to let him go marry Calwilmë!" she protested. "That is giving up! He said that she explained that she had had enough, and that she could not take anymore of this. Truly, I fear for the continuation of their relationship." Fëanáro smiled. "This is hardly a time to smile, Fëanáro!"

He shook his head. "I am not smiling because I find it amusing. I am smiling because I understand her intentions. She is not truly giving up on him. Outwardly, at least. She is truly noble in all of the sense. Perhaps I did underestimate her."

"Fëanáro, what new mockery is this?"

"Nerdanel, if you love someone so dearly and the only way to bring them happiness was if you were out of their lives, would you be willing to go through that change? Would you be willing to allow them happiness? Would you be selfless enough to sacrifice your happiness for theirs?"

"If this is some crazed way of telling me that you are going to leave me - "

"I would never dream of it," Fëanáro replied, cutting off any further protest. "This is what Silmalir is doing for Makalaurë. Because she is under the impression that Makalaurë will be marrying Lady Calwilmë, she has given up for the sake of allowing him to marry her, because she thinks he truly wishes to be wed to the other. Either way, she is willing to go through loneliness if Makalaurë is allowed to the emotion of joy, therefore proving that she is, indeed, the right person for him."

Nerdanel listened to Fëanáro's impeccable argument. But she added her unspoken opinion. "What if Silmalir has been hurt too much? By what I gathered from an angry Tyelkormo, a distressed Makalaurë, and a cold Maitimo, Silmalir was under the impression that Makalaurë didn't love her at all by some slip-up from Lady Calwilmë. I would not hold anything against her, for it is perfectly reasonable, if she wished to return and never come back to the palace."

"I will tell her that I forced him to do it."

"But...Fëanáro...he agreed to it."

"You know people agree with me because most of the times, I am correct in my assumptions, and I have much intimidation in my eyes. Otherwise, those who disagree are simply overshadowed. Makalaurë thought it would be the only way to see Silmalir again - he could not run away, because his family meant a lot to him as well - and he simply agreed - after hesitating for a long time - out of pure worry for Silmalir's condition."

"Silmalir will be far from happy with the fact that Makalaurë has allowed her to go through this."

"Yes, I know. But time will heal the breaches, and though she may never forget it, she may yet be able to forgive him, at least."

"Are you going to apologise?"

"What else would I do?"

"Tell Makalaurë first and _then_ apologise."

Fëanáro smiled. "Alright." He stood up and made to open the door, when Nerdanel suddenly winced. Immediately, he was back at her side, blinking worriedly. "Nerdanel, are you alright? Is it the baby?"

"Yes!"

"Should I go get a healer?"

"Yes! Hurry!"

He all but tore out the door, shouting at the nearest person to help his wife in the forge.

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><p><strong>Okay. This was definitely short of the two-thousand mark. I am slipping. I realised that my author's note was even longer than the actual chapter. So now, I sadly smack my forehead in disappointment.<strong>


	29. Confessions and Beliefs

**Sorry for not updating...for almost an entire week! Goodness. I usually updated every other day, but now, I'm slipping!**

**I want to congratulate...myself! (And all of you astute readers who can read me like a book - I'll give you a cookie later.)**

**I have finally settled this entire thing, and I have come up with a reason for Silmalir to forgive Maglor! But sorry guys, that's not happening in this story. If she did, I'd never forgive myself for being so blatantly oblivious to human emotions. So, to clear up the entire 'she'll-forgive-him-if-he-begs,' I'm going to say this once. Maglor is not going to ask for forgiveness twice. Silmalir won't forgive him in a hundred years.**

(Hint, hint: _SEQUEL!_)

**So...I hope that you will stick around for the sequel. This is kind of far from ending right now, but my brain - needs to be fired - is very frenetic and has decided to jump ahead of my fingers on the track! The part where Silmalir forgives Maglor is an entirely different story, so I guess you could say it's kind of a trilogy. Congratulate me for being decisive?**

But my decisions aren't always permanent, so if there's a change in plan, I'll fill you in.

**Now...please enjoy the story. Oh, and please tell me if this chapter sucked, because I wasn't sure how to make Silmalir react to Makalaurë's confession. **

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><p>Silmalir veered off path and took a left into the garden, knowing that she would find an amount of sanctuary in this place. She saw a round tree, wide enough to fit three Elves across one side. She meandered over to it and sat down against the trunk of the large oak, looking up through the leaves at the sky, dancing with Laurelin's light. It was beautiful, as usual, and it shone through the small patches, creating a show of leaves on the grass, their shadows susurrating.<p>

There was a sigh from the other side of the tree, and Silmalir's head immediately turned to the right, where it was nearest. Though she could not see the source of the sound, she could determine that it was an Elf. Though the voice was unrecognisable, she would have been able to discern it in at least an hour.

"Why are you sighing?" she asked quietly.

The Elf who had sighed sounded tired. "I have gotten myself in so much...deep...shite. Truly, there is no way out for me now. I can only wait to die and hope for sanctuary in Mandos, because Aman will not grant me peace. The one I love I hurt every day, and the one I do not love has hurt the one I love as well," the Elf replied.

"Why do you hurt the one you love every day?"

There was another sigh. "I have to unintentionally. Because I agreed to these...terms, I have to watch her suffer at my consequences. She will never forgive me for doing this to her, because I should have fought for what was important. I am completely worthless, and I wouldn't be surprised if she didn't love me - detested me, even - because of my stupidity."

Silmalir blinked. This sounded almost like her situation. "Why can you not break these terms of yours? You could try to apologise to the girl before all is too late. If she truly loves you, she would forgive you, but with time. If she forgave you immediately, she truly has no integrity or respect for herself. If you sit back and do nothing, you might lose the one you love because you wait. I hear the royal wedding is to be in a few days from now. The son of the prince...is getting married to Lady Calwilmë. Tell me - do you think they truly love each other?"

There was a pregnant pause; then the voice came back. "No. The son of the prince, for one, does not love Lady Calwilmë. At all. He has only ever loved one person, and that person is the one that he hurts with good meaning, because he can't stop it unless he defies the Prince."

"Defies the Prince?"

"The Prince has arranged this marriage, and it is the son's duty to follow. But the son should have done something, should have disagreed to it. The son was too weak, and he could not handle it. He gave in to his father's will. He is not worthy."

Silmalir stood up, slamming her palm against the base of the tree, remembering Makalaurë painfully and forcing herself to ignore the hurt that flooded through. She might as well get rid of any reason to love him right now. "Makalaurë is most definitely worthy," she said firmly.

All of the things that he did, and all of things that he was doing - she realised that she still loved him, no matter how much she hated what he was doing.

* * *

><p>On the other side of the tree, Makalaurë's eyes shot open with surprise as he recognised Silmalir's voice. He let out an inaudible breath. "Prince Kanafinwë has made a grave mistake in agreeng to marry Lady Calwilmë. He did not stand up for what he should have. He is weak-willed."<p>

"Who are you to decide that?"

"I am the one who knows him best; in heart, in mind, in body."

"Makalaurë may not be perfect, but that certainly doesn't label him as unworthy. He's done so much things for this palace, he does things for the little elflings on the streets, and he's done things for me. He saved me. He is most definitely worthy, and if his reward for doing all of it comes in the form of Lady Calwilmë, then so be it. If it comes in the form of his one true love, then let his true love be with him forever. Because Makalaurë, no matter how bad he is - " her voice stopped, as if she was catching her breath; then she continued in a shaky voice, " - is still worthy."

"Silmalir...that's not true."

There was a choking sound from the other side of the tree, and Makalaurë heard a rustling of grass. Eventually, when he looked up to his left, he found himself looking at the beautiful Elf-maiden that he thought of every day, wondering if she would ever forgive him for being useless. Her eyes were filled with something akin to tears, though they did not overflow and threaten to spill over her finely sculpted cheekbones.

"You... Why?" she asked slowly, as if enunciating the words would still the hurt. "Why are you..."

He rose to stand and faced her calmly, though his knees were almost about to collapse at the mere intensity of the situation. "I am sorry."

Then, her eyes narrowed, and her nails bit into the palm of her hand. "I don't believe you. I _can't_."

Her face showed, against her will, what would have been cruel hope, as though there were a chance that what he said had been true. As if everything hung on a single, slender lifeline, and she was closest to the edge that would save everything on the lifeline. She faintly thought that it was almost pathetic. He looked at her straight in the eyes, hoping that there was enough of the utter pain, and remorse, that he felt, all bundled into a look of sincerity and utmost disgust at himself for being so weak.

"I - "

Then he was cut off, as a familiar golden-haired Elf ran into the gardens, the skirt of her dress flowing behind her. Her face was flushed, and her eyes were bright with excitement. Silmalir briefly wondered what had happened to cause Lady Calwilmë such happiness. She watched as Lady Calwilmë stopped in front of Makalaurë and whispered into his ear. Apparently, it had only been one sentence, but it was enough to make Makalaurë's eyes widen with excitement as well and take off running inside of the palace, Lady Calwilmë following after.

Silmalir stood there, shaking her head, and when Makalaurë dared to look back, she was gone from the tree.

* * *

><p>The baby had been born to the name of Curufinwë, Atar's name. He was small and adorable, drawing affection from everyone around him. This included Makalaurë, who had received word, from Lady Calwilmë, that his little brother had just been brought into the living world of Elves. And pain. And remorse. And regret. It was sincerely too bad that Curufinwë would have to be born in the time that his brother was most in the wrong...<p>

"He looks a bit like Atar," Maitimo mused, smiling.

At the moment, only the royal family remained in the room, and Nerdanel rested in the bed, eyes slightly closed in rest. Lady Calwilimë left, knowing that it would have been improper to remain, and Silmalir, though welcome in every sense, was not present, because of her not knowing of it.

Tyelkormo turned at Maitimo's comment. "Ai, no... Now we will have a mini Atar to follow Caranthir around... And Findekáno and Findaráto are going to _love_ teasing Curufinwë about being Atar. It will be extremely hilarious for Caranthir to be referred to as our littlest brother's son..."

Makalaurë, who was holding the little babe, rolled his eyes. "We will _all_ be referred to as our littlest brother's sons, Tyelkormo."

Tyelkormo grinned. "Ah - but still, they will all think it is really Atar, instead of this little Elf right here." He placed a gentle finger on the baby's mouth, and in the next instance, it was enveloped by a tiny mouth. Then, the finger was spat out, and the baby opened his eyes and glared at the finger with his stony grey eyes. "Great. He can glare like Atar too."

Atar, of course, entered the room again, and raised an eyebrow. "What about glaring like Atar?"

Ammë smiled. "We should name him Atarinkë, for his uncanny similarities to Atar..."

"Absolutely...not."

"Oh come on," said Maitimo cheerfully. "You both even have the same _ataressë_..."

"No."

"Please, Atar?" said Tyelkormo. "He's so..._like_ you. Even his glare is the same! Watch!"

Fëanáro rolled his eyes. "Atarinkë? They will expect him to grow up just like I did."

Makalaurë looked down at the little Curufinwë in his arms and then to his Atar. Would little Curufinwë have done this to his son? Would his glare have been powerful enough to make his son submit to his will, simply because it was the more dominant will? He looked down at the baby again, and this time, little Curufinwë was glaring full-out at Tyelkormo while Caranthir happily danced about, cheering that he had a little baby brother, and that he wasn't the youngest one anymore.

"I'm older!" Caranthir chirped.

"But Atar is even older!" Tyelkormo added.

Caranthir pouted. "Atar does. Not. Count."

"We're all older."

"So?"

"You're still one of the youngest," Tyelkormo said; then he winced as his finger was abruptly seized and pulled harshly by little Curufinwë.

"But I'm not _the_ youngest!" Caranthir sang. Then he jumped on Maitimo from behind and grinned cheekily at Tyelkormo.

Tyelkormo would have gingerly pried Caranthir from Maitimo and full-out tickled him, but Curufinwë had his finger in a death-grip. Fëanáro smiled at his littlest son, noting that his hands were sure and steady, like an artist's and smith's. Nerdanel watched Fëanáro's proud gaze, tracing it all the way to their newborn baby. His expression seemed to soften as he watched Curufinwë kill Tyelkormo's finger, all the while inflicting his father's trademark glare on the unfortunate blonde Elf.

A smile lit up her eyes.

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><p><strong>Well, I couldn't have Maglor and Fëanor's strained relationship ruin the beautiful family moment!<br>I have to admit, Maglor...that wasn't a smart move, running off like that.**

Tell me what you think!

**Should Maglor have taken off instead of telling Silmalir how he really felt?  
>Should Silmalir have run off before even trying to face Maglor?<strong>


	30. Apology Unaccepted

**I love Fánamaril.**

(**Note: **This is in the perspective of Fánamaril.)

**So...**I might have made a few people disappointed with what happened in 29. To make it up, I have planned out this filler chapter, purely for the sake of adding more background on my original characters, and how far friendships go.

**1. **I still hate my keyboard.  
><strong>2.<strong> I feel like I'm running out of ideas. Words won't come to me. I need the dam to burst.  
><strong>3.<strong> Fánamaril was given to Lady Alquasar for protection and met Silmalir, the one person she was _not_ supposed to meet.

**Okay...let me explain. (And there will eventually be a fiction that elaborates - but I shouldn't aim too high yet.)  
><strong>At that time, in Tirion, _there were attacks_. Yes. I just made that up on the spot. Fána's father went to war against the opposing force. It was kind of like Gondolin. At the time, Morgoth brought some of his...cronies over, and lost control of some of them. Those cronies became these creatures, and Fána's father died. Her mother sent her to Lady Alquasar, to live as a servant - safe and serving.  
>- Silmalir's dad had died around that time as well. Lady Alquasar instructed Fánamaril to stay <em>away<em> from Silmalir.  
><strong>- Sorry, but Fána no listen, Lady Alquasar.<strong>

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><p>I don't think I could take anymore of this. Not when Silmalir came storming into the room, forcing me out of it, and locked the door behind her as soon as I was outside. One look into her eyes and I saw that she was extremely angry, and it made my patience run thinner than a clothesline shadow on a hot summer day. I was tempted to knock on the door, to ask her what was wrong, but as soon as I heard her soft sobs, I backed away from the door in shock.<p>

Now, I did not even have to ask.

Glancing downwards, I saw grass stalks, torn from the ground by the heels of her boots. I followed the trail, noting that the garden wasn't far from here. The archway was only a few feet from me then, and I strode through it, going over to the giant tree that towered over the east corner of the garden.

What could have happened here?

Why did it happen to _her_?

I sat down against the base of the tree, sighing. A sixth sense crept up in the back of my mind, making me feel oddly...out of place where I was. I glanced up the body of the tree and saw that some of the bark had been chipped away.

"Fánamaril?" Valar give me the strength not to inflict violence on any innocent, living thing. "What are you doing here?"

In resignation, I turned around and saw the handsome face of Makalaurë. His face was worn, and his eyes were sad, as if he had done something very stupid and knew that he couldn't possibly make it any better. Of course, I wasn't taking in his appearance. I could only wonder what he had been doing before we came back to the palace, and what ever possessed him to court that..._lady_. I also wondered what he had done, directly or indirectly, to make Silmalir shed tears.

"I'm thinking," I replied.

I could count on one hand the number of times Silmalir cried openly.

"This spot is great for thinking," he commented wryly, sitting down slightly farther away from me.

I cannot believe he could have even thought about making her cry over him.

"What did you do to her?" I asked slowly.

He blinked. "What did I—what?"

"She was crying. What. Did. You. Do."

It was ironic how we sat there calmly, when Makalaurë and I both knew that I would have liked to do nothing more than leap at his throat. It was as if we were still friends, but on different sides of a boundary. We still understood each other. We would never hurt Silmalir intentionally, because it would have been the last thing he did if I found out, and vice versa—if not worse. But it seemed as if it were different now. I wanted to believe that Makalaurë would kill me if I hurt her. I wanted to believe that he would never hurt her intentionally.

_Could I still hope?_

Makalaurë leaned against the tree and smacked his hand with his forehead. "I left her...at this tree."

I have never heard anything more stupid than _this_. "I'm sorry; _what?_"

He removed his hand from his eyes, and it startled me to see that they were watery. He was crying. "I had to choose." He laughed harshly. It was odd to see him cry and laugh at the same time, but I understood. "I do not even care anymore."

"...Choose what?"

"Curufinwë was born. My youngest brother. He was born, and Lady Calwilmë was sent to fetch me. Unfortunately for me, she was out of breath and could only deliver the message in short gasps. I... I was under the impression that my mother was greatly weakened, and I had been facing Silmalir at the time," he explained, wiping tears irritably from his cheeks. "'Lady Nerdanel...the baby...born...closed her eyes...' she had said. I... I left Silmalir at the tree."

This... I could not even be angry at Makalaurë any longer, for making her cry. Not when it was obvious that he hadn't meant to do it on purpose. I, though I wonder at times why I did so because I obviously detested what he was doing, placed a consoling hand on his shoulder and sighed. "She'll understand...if it was because you were afraid to lose Lady Nerdanel. Silmalir already lost her mother at a young age, and she only had her father."

"So she would be able to sympathize?" he wondered, a questioning look in his eyes as he met mine.

I shook my head and laughed at him. Did he really think that it was like that? I laughed at the expression that came after. But I stopped when I realised that I was really confusing him, therefore making him even more frustrated at himself. I don't know... I could have forgiven him, if he decided that he wanted to forget everything and run away with Silmalir. If she'd let him.

"Oh, Makalaurë, did she not tell you?" I asked him, resisting the urge to smile.

But it won through, making my statement even scarier.

"She hated Lord Almarawë."

Makalaurë's eyes widened.

* * *

><p>I should have written a <em>book<em> on how well I knew Silmalir. I would have named it: _Silmalir Character Study - A Life of Solitude and Servitude_; it would have fit perfectly, because her personality was that much clear to me. I had known her since I was sent to serve Lady Alquasar at the age of thirteen. My mother could not take care of me; my father died fighting.

Of course, when I told Makalaurë that Silmalir had in fact disliked her father, he paled, and his eyes widened considerably. It was comical, because it was certainly news to him. But I understood why she would hate her father. After all...who could understand better than one who hated her mother? The mother who never even _tried_ to take care of her; the mother who gave up before she even started; the mother who neglected her when she cried.

The mother who couldn't handle the truth that her husband was _never, ever_ coming back.

The mother who gave her daughter away to be a servant.

I held onto the vain hope that maybe, she really wanted a good life for me. That she wouldn't be able to sustain a healthy environment for me to grow up in, and it was better a servant's quarters than the alleys.

That vain hope was something I should have never set myself up for.

When I was old enough, at the age of fifty-seven, Silmalir accompanied me to where Lady Alquasar said I might find my mother. My lady had a sick sense of humor.

A burial mound.

Silmalir opened up to me. We shared sorrows as I unblinkingly stared at the uneven ground, as I came to the cognizance that my mother was only waiting for the right time to die. I didn't even cry, to be honest. She wanted to at least spare me the shock of seeing her digging her own grave.

And who had covered her body with the earth she had torn apart?

Silmalir pulled me out of the trance I had gone into.

Just like I would now pull her out of hers.

* * *

><p>After facing Makalaurë and having some of my anger answered to, I decided it was high time to apologise for punching Tyelkormo.<p>

"Tyelkormo, I wanted to - "

I stopped short when I saw him, chatting with Riellondë. Her back was flat against the wall, and she was gesturing animatedly, while his posture was more of leaning against it casually with his forearm supporting him. I contemplated, really, whether or not to stand there and stare like an idiot, when I turned on my heel and walked away. He probably did not even wish to speak with me either way; not when I punched him when he least deserved it.

There were _a lot_ of times when Tyelkormo deserved to be punched. That time, in the entrance hall, was not one of them, no matter what my brain told me at the time. Well, I _had_ been about to apologise, but seeing him occupied made me feel like I should come back later. And maybe, and hopefully, I would forget that I even wanted to apologise to that—

I felt something catch my elbow and bring me bac to where I was standing. "Fánamaril, you wanted to say something?"

"I forgot," I replied blandly.

Tyelkormo raised an eyebrow. "Just when you were about to speak what you wanted to say, you..._forgot?_"

Valar...he was so mercilessly handsome when skeptical. And I was being stupid. _What am I thinking? _Tyelkormo and I were only friends before our coming back to the palace, and I had been so sure that it would remain that way—unawkward, unlike Silmalir and Makalaurë's situation.

I nodded. "I'm sorry; when I remember, I'll come back to tell you." I apologised...but for the wrong reason.

He shook his head, offering me a warm smile. My reserve cracked a little. "Why don't you stay instead? We can talk. I haven't...spoken to you in a long time." Obviously, we were both thinking of the same incident...in that certain entrance hall...

It was no use trying to hold an apology when it was due. "I'm sorry."

"...Sorry?" He tilted his head to the side, the smile still on his face. "For what?"

"For punching you." Eru, it was really hard to apologise. "It must have really hurt."

"Your punch was weaker than Maitimo's. And his punch is _weak_. I was fine—"

"And I'm sorry for saying...that I was right in attacking you," I interrupted. _Might as well get this over with... Maybe he'll let me go after I've finished cutting off all ties to my pride._

Tyelkormo blinked. "What have I done to earn two apologies from you, Fánamaril? You never apologised when you tripped me, when you 'accidently' whacked me on the back of the head, when you told me I was a chauvinistic imbecile."

That was _not_ true_. _"I said mooncalf."

"Either way, it was an insult," he reminded me. "And I didn't mind. I didn't really mind when you punched me either... I probably deserved it. So why are you apologising _now_? Why have you suddenly decided to make amends, when it didn't matter anyway?

The thought struck me; he was angry. Well, I deserved it. "Because it must be amended."

"Then, if Makalaurë were to apologise to Silmalir, would you, in her place, have accepted it?"

I snorted. "No."

"Why would you apologise, if you knew that the person would not accept the apology?"

Wonderful. He _was_ angry. I narrowed my eyes at him. "I am not Silmalir, and I will never be. Her reaction is dependent on what _your brother—" _great, I was back to referring to Makalaurë as 'your brother; "—has done. If it's plausible to forgive. If you do not want to talk to me, then I am absolutely fine with it."

Tyelkormo's jaw set. "Really?"

"Definitely."

"Then go."

My hands shook. "Fine."

"Fine."

I started to walk away. But I turned back, still walking, and I didn't even bother to glare.

"I can promise that you will never see me again in this palace."

* * *

><p>...I never promised him. I only said that I <em>could<em>.

But right after I said that and turned down a hallway, I walked into a beam and swore. "Ow...Manwë's bird."

I stayed on the floor, unblinking. I sighed and leaned against the wall, glancing around at my surroundings. Why did it seem so familiar—oh. The very same storeroom that Silmalir had been locked in. The storeroom she had been recovered from. It should have happened to me. I should have prevented her from... There were a lot of things that I should have prevented.

-Silmalir from entering the storeroom.  
>-Silmalir from leaving the palace.<br>-Silmalir from going out alone on a walk through the palace.  
>-myself from punching Tyelkormo.<p>

Tyelkormo was mad. That was understandable, at least. But that was the last thing I needed when I had a crying Silmalir and Makalaurë on my hands. I was too proud to ask for forgiveness in the sappiest way possible, and my dignity demanded that he forgive me immediately because of how much face I just lost. Still, apologies were about the person who was hurt—in this case, physically. It was never about the one who apologised.

I couldn't get past trying to prove myself innocent to actually trying to mend the rift between us.

But..._us?_

What was 'us?'

* * *

><p><strong>So...yes. Tyelkormo was not happy about that. He knew that Fánamaril was just trying to get it off her shoulders, and it wasn't sincere. So, he wasn't going to forgive her until she meant it. And Fánamaril...well, knowing the pressure that's been put on her shoulders—y<strong>**ou know, when your friend dates your other friend and they end up fighting, it's really the one in the middle who is being thrown around—she couldn't handle even more stress. So she snapped.**

**Despite that fact that she thinks, _"_**_I deserved it,"_ **she's not too excited at the prospect of facing Tyelkormo's repayment.**

So...stick around for the next chapter! And I've started to do teaser-lines again!

**Maitimo to Fánamaril—  
><strong>"_You know, he does want to see you. So he can apologise."  
><em>**Fánamaril's reply—  
><strong>_"No way in Mandos am I making that mistake again."_

**I wonder. I think I might have made Fánamaril too kind to Makalaurë, but she's still indignant at his actions. They were good friends before, and Fánamaril still cares about Makalaurë in a firmly platoninc way. Her nature doesn't allow anyone, no matter how much she detests them, to be in distress if she can comfort them. But then again, Fánamaril hates what he's doing. Not him.**

**Note: **Riellondë is mentioned in the earlier chapters as an original character.


	31. The Truth to Fána

**The best thing to do is go home.**

_But I...do I really have a home? For home is where the heart lay._

* * *

><p>The next day, Fánamaril immediately went to Silmalir's room and opened the door. Her fists were tightly clenched as she recalled what happened in the hallway with Tyelkormo, and it almost brought the flame of anger back to her heart.<p>

He wouldn't accept her apology. Perhaps she had been too insincere, and it sounded mocking to his ears. Perhaps she shouldn't have said she forgot and then immediately apologised afterwards. Or mayhap she shouldn't have even tried to apologise and should have just took Silmalir out of the palace. Her talk with Makalaurë hadn't even reappeared in her mind until she saw Silmalir, sitting on the chair and reading a book. The spine shocked her.

_To Say Yes._

_Goodness_, Fánamaril thought. Silmalir was reading a book about sadistic and sinister characters! Valar! The main character herself was masochistic! To Say Yes when your lover asked you if you minded him marrying someone else - definitely masochistic! The full title should have been 'to say yes when you mean no.'

"Fánamaril, stop standing there and gawking at my book," said Silmalir amusedly.

Fánamaril picked her jaw up from the floor and glared. "Why are you reading _that_?"

"It's interesting to me."

"It's damaging to you too!" She sighed and ran a hand through her ponytail. "The best thing to do is go home now, Silmalir. I should go tell Lady Alquasar so we can get back to the estate as soon as possible; there's no need to watch all of this blasphemy." Then she glanced at Silmalir's eyes. They were filled with conflicting emotions. "Do you want to go back?"

"No" was the immediate response. Silmalir blinked, as if surprised that she actually said it. Then; "I _do_ want to go back, but I want to stay as well."

"Why?"

"To watch Makalaurë's reaction when he sees that I'm planning to inflict more pain on myself."

"That's masochistic." Just like Haldhisë, the character of To Say Yes. "What you need to do is get away from this place as quicky as possible."

"Makalaurë wants me to stay," she said sarcastically. "So I will. And I'll watch him when he goes through the pain of watching mine."

And then, Fánamaril knew that Silmalir had changed. She had changed drastically. Usually, she wouldn't have been so bent on exacting revenge, but because of the incident with her father, Fánamaril would never be able to meet the Silmalir that was uncorrupted and innocent, like a little newborn kit.

Fánamaril glared. "No. Silmalir, it's not healthy for you to inflict pain on yourself. I'm not going to let you."

"You aren't my mother, Fána. She died a long time ago."

"Silmalir - "

"_Please, _Fána. I don't want to talk about my dark side."

There was a pregnant pause, in which Fánamaril contemplated how Silmalir had been scarred in more ways than one. She glanced from the bed, made, to Silmalir, who seemed to have just been roused from sleep. Her stone-grey eyes were tired, and there was the faint hint of dark circles under her eyes. Her skin was pale, and her mouth was set in a thin line, emotionless and unmoving. Her hair was still as graceful as ever, but with Silmalir's expression, it looked as if it simply hung from their position, framing her face.

"Are you sure?" Fánamaril asked finally.

"...leave me, Fána. I want to think."

* * *

><p>Fánamaril thought that she had a right to fling the nearest glass vase out over the balusters and onto the first floor garden path. She sat on a bench in the light hallway, glaring at the one object on the stand in front of her. A glass vase. It glinted nicely in the light, framed with Laurelin's golden shine as roses and daises and poppies were illuminated sharply over the pearly background. It made Fánamaril want to smash it even more, with her bare hands.<p>

She frowned as she heard footsteps move towards her. It was a light step, but with dense resonation, so it was obviously a male.

"You know, he does want to see you. So he can apologise."

Fánamaril glanced up from Maitimo's feet to his face, the frown still on her face. "No way in Mandos am I making that mistake again."

Maitimo sighed and sat down next to her. "Fána...how did everything get so...out of control?"

She scowled. "You tell me."

Maitimo suddenly sat up straight and turned to her, an almost salvation-begging look in his eyes. "I will."

She raised an eyebrow. "How? How are you going to tell me, when I already know that your brother has, in fact, revoked every single thing that he promised to Silmalir? What else there is to explain, Maitimo? Perhaps why he feels guilty about it when he shouldn't have done it in the first place?"

There was another sigh from Maitimo.

"He was forced into it."

* * *

><p><strong>No matter Maitimo put it, it still sounded as stupid as it was.<strong>

* * *

><p>There was the sound of a crack resonating through the halls, and Maitimo leaned away from Fánamaril, wincing and cupping his bruised jaw. Her fist was balled up tightly, and her knuckles were white with pressure and anger. At least she held back to some degree.<p>

"I'm sorry," said Maitimo sincerely.

"Don't apologise. Not you. Not me," Fánamaril replied, getting up and striding away.

_Don't apologise. Not you_.

Fána couldn't make sense of what she just said, but Maitimo understood perfectly well. She could not form words coherently with the current situation dawning on her completely, so she spoke in broken sentences, unable to piece together what she wished to speak. Her eyes flickered back and forth from the hallway, searching for the nearest way to _his_ presence. Maitimo looked after her sadly, ignoring the killer feeling on his jaw.

Maitimo - he knew that she didn't want him to apologise; didn't want to _see_ him apologise to her, because it wasn't him who needed to apologise, and neither her who deserved the apology. He had a feeling that Fánamaril was going to search for him.

This couldn't be good.

* * *

><p><strong>In fact, it isn't good right now.<strong>

**Sorry, guys. School really bugs the Helcar out of me right now. I've got an essay due Monday - sigh - audition for orchestra position tomorrow - and I've still got to master Clair de Lune by next Thursday, not to mention all of that other stuff that I do. So, updates are going to be so much less frequent. I don't like it at all. ****To be honest, I've barely had time to rough out the sequel, and I lost the original manuscript when my computer blacked.**

**I'm breaking my promise too. Remind me never to promise anything ever again.**

**This was barely past 1,000 words. When I look back at this, I'll die from embarrassment.**

However, I've got something going as well. Who do you think Fánamaril's going to seek out?

**-Feanor  
>-Maglor<br>-Finwe  
>-Celegorm<strong>

Or someone else? :P


	32. The Mirror of What?

On the tiles of the wine cellar on the third floor, there was a broken doll, lying splayed out with dark hair fanned across the granite marble. The dark eyes—onyx gems, really—were cracked in uneven places, ruining the painstaking symmetry that it was made with. If one looked closely, there was a little girl sitting in the shadows, head buried in her knees as she wrapped her arms around herself. Her hair, very much like the doll's, curtained her from view.

No one really paid attention to her.

She was her very own shadow, and she liked to be left alone.

The faint voice of a girl called out to her. "Silmalir! Dinner!"

That voice was filled with a slight distaste and fear—Lohtilin had never really liked Silmalir that much anyway.

Silmalir ignored Lohtilin and shifted slightly, leaning over to pick up the shattered doll. The arm was rocking on its hinges, and locks of hair fell to the floor. It was deteriorating, like her father's health. She could see it very clearly—his coughs were elongated and rough, and sometimes, afterwards, he wouldn't be able to speak. His light brown hair would fall forward, catching the sunlight, and he himself would lean over to capture his coughs; to hide it from Lady Alquasar.

There was also the new servant who was brought here because her mother couldn't take care of her. Silmalir had watched through the third floor window, seeing the look on the Elf-lady's eyes as she handed her daughter to Lady Alquasar and her father. She could hear their voices.

"_Fána, behave, alright? Ammë will come back to get you after Atar comes back."_

_"But, Ammë—"_

_"No buts, Fána. Promise you'll behave for Ammë?"_

_"...I promise, Ammë."_

_"Good."_

The faint delusion that Silmalir could ever make a friend was back. She glanced back at the doll in her hands and sighed. It had been exactly eight years ago—she was now twelve and awkwardly tall. Her face was quite thin, and her stone-grey eyes were a bit dulled, accompanied by dark circles under her eyes. On some days, she would go out for a walk, with her father and step-family trailing behind her, but most of the time, she simply stayed in the house, on the third floor, where no one dared tread for fear of tripping over her. Fellow servants would find her sprawled on the floor, staring unblinkingly at the wall.

"Where's Silmalir?" she heard her father ask.

"She didn't come down for dinner," Lohtilin said defensively.

There was a sigh. "I cannot force her to eat... She's always like this on this day."

"Let her be, my lord," suggested Lady Alquasar.

"Very well—Fána, it's no use. She will not come down."

"Yes, my lord," a little girl's voice said quietly.

* * *

><p>It was hard to believe that Silmalir had grown up to be a bit more comely. Ever since Lord Almarawë's death, she started to look more and more like her mother, to the point where Lady Alquasar would determinedly avoid her at all costs. Aicelen had somewhat been mature and tried to get along, but most of the time, the mother and her daughters generally paid no attention to Silmalir. It was extremely awkward when they were walking down in the streets, and Silmalir was walking behind, lugging all of the baggage that they had accumulated during shopping. Silmalir knew to keep her distance, at least.<p>

However, it was even harder to believe that Lady Alquasar was now sympathizing with Silmalir.

Silmalir didn't really like the similarities that had occured, such as unrequited love to some point, but it was nice to have someone continuously lay out worthless pity to reject.

She had already finished reading To Say Yes, and reading the main character's demise was something quite refreshing.

"I think I shall go outside for a walk," she murmured to herself in the mirror, thumbing a lock of dark hair between her fingers. Then she laughed at herself, though the one in the mirror simply smiled. "Oh, am I going mad? I am talking to myself! I suppose I am quite delirious now... Perhaps I am dreaming."

One slight slap to the cheek, self-inflicted, proved that Silmalir was indeed awake.

"Well then, Silmalir, we can go for a walk together," she said cheerfully, walking away from the mirror and opening the door.

Silmalir walked calmly down the hallway, a placid expression on her face as she glanced at the visible sky. They were blue, like Makalaurë's eyes. Full of depth, never-ending, with specks of white. She came across another mirror at the corner, but, instead of showing her reflection, it reflected on a scene from far away. She didn't understand what was happening at first—then she saw it. Her body, broken and lying on the floor, like the doll's.

Blood made a velvety violent red trail down her chin, and her entire left side was drenched in crimson. There was a sword, not far from her twitching, bloody fingers... This wasn't a mirror. Silmalir reached out and touched it tentatively, filled with wonder at this strange artifact.

And a red-haired Elf knelt next to her, with Fánamaril cradling Silmalir's head in her lap. He was shouting at her, and Silmalir could barely make out the silent screams...

_Stay awake... Stay awake...!_

He resembled Maitimo to some degree, with both of them having red hair. All around the three in the mirror—no, looking glass, there was chaos. People were struck down with weapons that Silmalir couldn't see, and many were still fighting. It was a civil war, with Elves attacking each other viciously...and was that Prince Fëanáro? His eyes were filled with a terrifying, overwhelming triumph, but they were filled with slight shock and regret, significant enough to make his expression a contradicting statement.

But, as she flickered her gaze back to the Silmalir in the mirror, she found herself trying to pinpoint what the dying Silmalir was saying.

_Tell him...I forgive him..._

She found herself mouthing the words as well, and she pulled back from the mirror, gasping. As Silmalir's back hit the wall, she wondered to herself... _Was that a vision of the future? Or a figment of my imagination? Is Lorien playing some sort of trick with me?_

Her eyes narrowed, and she walked away from the blasted thing, determined to get answers from the only reliable source that she found sufficient.

The library.

* * *

><p><strong>Er... I'm so sorry I haven't updated in such a long time—it's almost been one month. I'm trying to get my head straight. <strong>**But I have very happy news that I want to share with you all!  
><strong>Although, it's more exciting for me...

Last Friday was my heritage day for school! I had a lot of fun, but a lot of people were convinced that my dad was Thor or something. _Hint, hint._

**Anyways, this is a filler chapter.  
><strong>**And it's short. Shame on me.**

**Ah, well, better than nothing!**

_"The mirror is said to have special properties...and will show a course in the future  
>that you may think as a regret or relieve."<em>


	33. NotJustice Says Caranthir!

(**Note: **This is third person point of view.)

**Enjoy!**

_Words to Know!:  
><em>_Nendolor - pool of dreams  
>Manailino - fate's pool<em>

* * *

><p>Silmalir tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and glared meaningfully at the old text in front of her. For the past few hours, she had been resisting the urge to fling the cursed thing at the book shelf and watch the library foundation tumble to the floor. Unfortunately, it would earn the fury of the librarian, so she held back without a word. She was reaching the end of her patience, however. Nothing, in the section she was certain held information about the mirror, spoke anything of the infuriatingly mysterious and eluding object.<p>

The sad, pitying stares that the other Elves in the library tried to hide weren't helping either.

Obviously, word of Makalaurë's change of heart had spread like a plague across the castle—Silmalir wouldn't be surprised if the people outside of the palace knew as well. News tended to travel like water. It went where it needed to, and people could easily alter the path.

Ringalannë was one of them.

She had come up to Silmalir while the latter was shuffling around the bookshelves, searching for any book concerning mirrors of magic. Silmalir was only alerted to her presence when she felt the same uncomfortable, prickling feeling on her neck. She could sense the look that Ringalannë was giving her.

When Silmalir turned around, she was proved right by the Elf's facial expression, and she said flatly, "You don't have to feel sorry for me."

Just like everyone else—that same look that she despised. She was capable of feeling pity, but that didn't mean she was capable of receiving it in stride, if it came to subjects and topics such as love, or even happiness. Useless pity she did not need. It wasn't going to make her life better anyway. It just made her feel weak and reminded her of whatever had happened.

_The mirror is said to have special properties..._

Silmalir stopped her wandering thoughts and stared at the book in front of her. Finally, the answer! Enlightenment at last! She stood up from her seat and felt cheering. A smile carved itself on her face as she made her way to the counter to borrow the book. She took the quill in her hand and signed the scroll on the stand in a flourish. Then she shot the librarian a grin and skipped out of the door, leaving many confused Elves in the library.

She walked out into the hallway, a slight spring in her step. Her momentary celebration of success was over. The book was tucked under her arm, and she strode to the end of the hallway, into the main entrance hall, and out of the entrance doors. Her destination was the horse stables, which she eventually reached after meandering many yards of thriving, healthy green grass plains. There it was, in all its glory, standing by itself with a cart of dirtied sacks and hay not too far off from the trail.

Silmalir pressed open the large stable door gently, and the smell of the great beasts hit her. She immediately held her breath and sprinted over to the back, where there was a porch. It was an excellent place when one was in the contemplative state of mind.

Releasing air with relief, she sat down in a rocking chair and placed the book in her lap. The corner of the page she had folded helped her find her place again. She distinctly remembered a time when Fánamaril had admonished her for 'abusing the book.' She winced when she thought of Fána, the best friend one could ever have. Silmalir couldn't imagine how Fánamaril was feeling, watching Silmalir's mental health slowly waste away—not that she was going crazy or anything.

Probably not.

_The Nendolor was an old artifact found buried near the Mindon. It is noted to be a dangerous relic and is also known as Mirror of Doom, Dream Pool, and Manailino. Passages and events are shown in the glass and may or may not predict a certain event in the future. Shifting of events is likely, for one's fate is not set in stone unless willed by Eru. Such example is Lady Míriel's fate. Documentary shows that she has seen through the mirror once before. It is still kept in the palace of Tirion as an ancient artifact, though it is not known on which corridor. Presumably, King Finwë has taken the Nendolor down. No claim of ownership by the Valar has been made, so far, but it is assumed that Lord Námo once was in possession of it through association of similar abilities in both the lord and the mirror. (See Mirror of Doom)_

_Only few have claimed to see this mirror and describe it as a shocking experience. Most Elves, however, have elaborated their experiences as 'seeing my death before me, with my loved ones surrounding me.' Only two of the documented examples have come to fruition, out of four visions of deaths. Seldom will it show a scene in the past, in which it presents what could have happened. There have only been two to see without death. It remains unknown what materials were used to create and forge it, or who conceived the idea._

_Rúmil, a scholar from Tirion, has studied the history of the mirror and once looked into it. In his very own phrasing, he said, "The mirror is said to have special properties...and will show a course in the future that you may think as regret or relief. I consider this to be true, though I am not aware of any futuristic entail in my own vision. I pictured a flowery meadow, with a golden-haired Elf-lady crying. Soon after I recalled a part in my past that reflected this scene, but my memory is slightly questionable. I personally feel regretful that anyone should come across the Manailino. Do not take it lightly, should you ever cast your eyes upon the glass."_

_Only a few decades ago, research was conducted by Prince Curufinwë Fëanáro. However, it did not hold his interest for long, and he began research on Telperion and Laurelin instead._

And then the text stopped there, and the next chapter was dedicated to some other mirror, unrelevant to her interest, and more important matters were on her mind.

She was going to die?

* * *

><p>Everything was just so confusing. Fánamaril felt as if she were wandering through a labyrinth, though it was simply the palace. Guilt overrode her for punching Maitimo, but anger reared over it at Prince Fëanáro, and what she was about to do may or may not entitle to her the rest of her life chained to a dungeon wall. Her fists were clenched, and she stomped down elegant corridors, feeling out of place. If anyone dared look in her eyes, they would immediately try to evacuate.<p>

With that gaze, her eyes just about matched three-fourths of Prince Fëanáro's temperament.

Luck was not on her side today, for Tyelkormo himself came around the corner, and she stumbled into him.

"Sorry," she said, not seeing who it was until fingers grasped her wrist.

"Fánamaril," he said softly. "Look at me." He slowly pulled her fingers from her palm, and she slowly looked up at him.

For a moment, she could almost remember why she found him so handsome in the first place. And earlier occurences flashed through her mind, and she pulled her hand away. "My apologies, Lord Turcafinwë. I was not watching where I was going. Do you know where I might find your fa—"

Fánamaril was cut off as Tyelkormo pressed his lips to hers.

* * *

><p>Silmalir felt the world closing in on her. Learning of this—she shouldn't have been so rash to find out what she wanted. She glanced around the porch, feeling an abrupt surge of loneliness as she remembered no one was there. Not even Fánamaril, whom she had isolated herself from. Her very best friend, from the very beginning.<p>

She got up with the book in hand and ran out of the horse stables, o'er the grassy plains, onto the path of the palace, and into the palace itself. Her eyes were wide with shock as those cursed words repeated over and over again in her ears. She tried to think of something else, to not be reminded of the ugly fate she had in store. _Please no, no, NO!_

_Seeing my death before me, with my loved ones surrounding me..._

Her hands shook with the effort of keeping under control as she stopped her sprint in the empty entrance hall. So...very empty. Then, bright red appeared in her line of sight, and she turned around, recognizing Maitimo.

"Maitimo!" she exclaimed, relieved to have someone with her, even if he was so very far away from her. However, he was clutching his jaw and wincing, purple and blue blossoming under his elegant fingers. "What happened?"

Maitimo blinked. "Silmalir? Oh, I... Well, Fánamaril hit me in the jaw—she's got a real punch behind all of the maiden crap. What are you doing all alone?"

She was suddenly reminded again of the words. She tried to keep her voice from quivering. "I...went to the library, then to the horse stables, and back here. Nobody was at the horse stables either, so I came back here and...the entrance hall was empty."

He looked awkward, standing there with a hand cupping his bruise. "Well, I know you might think that spending time with me is considerably detestable, but...would you like to accompany me to the infirmary?" Then, in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere, he joked, "You know, just to make sure I make it in case I faint."

Silmalir knew that Fánamaril _could punch_. She smiled, walked over to Maitimo, and patted his cheek, earning a wince. "Alright."

He smiled back, but he wasn't sure if Silmalir meant hers at all.

* * *

><p>Caranthir rounded Findekáno and Findaráto together, a master plan developed in his brain. As his two younger cousins sat around him, he grinned toothily and laid out the ripped parchment on the play table, with a messily drawn diagram of a bucket of honey and feathers hanging over a doorway. Immediately, Findekáno knew this was a great idea, and clapped Caranthir on the back. Findaráto, however, knew precisely who this was meant for.<p>

"Are you sure we should be doing this?" wondered Findaráto aloud, voicing his doubts. They were traveling swiftly down the hallway, Findekáno holding the bucket, Caranthir holding the four jars of honey, and Findaráto holding the feathers (the lightest item) and rope. "Lady Calwilmë is quite nice at times..."

Caranthir snorted. "She stole Makalaurë from our Silmalir! It's our duty to right this injusti...unjus...not-justice!"

Findekáno nodded. "Atar always taught me to do what's right, even if it seems wrong at first."

That was all Findaráto needed to know. He nodded his golden head and clutched the sack of light feathers closer to him, though he still had a bad feeling in his stomach.

They stopped in front of a door, a pristine white and golden rimmed mahogany wood, with a hook above the door for rope ladders. Findekáno set the bucket down, and Caranthir began to hurriedly scoop honey out of the jar with his own fingers. Findekáno helped, going two at a time. Findaráto also dug in, trying to get a grip on the sticky honey. Then he, in frustration, stuck the giant jar in the big bucket's rim and hit the bottom of the jar repeatedly, causing all of it to ooze out.

His two cousins followed suit, and all of the honey was out. Caranthir took the pillow and ripped open the fabric, smearing honey all over the cloth. Findekáno took the opened pillow and dumped all of the feathers over the bucket, and Findaráto sat back on his heels, breathing out with exertion.

"That's a record!" exclaimed Caranthir, grinning. "Four minutes."

Findaráto simply nodded and sat back against the wall as Caranthir flung the rope around the stone hook and took the other end back in, waiting for Findekáno to tie the rope to the bucket like a noose, first unhinging the bucket, slipping on the knot, and fixing the handle. Then the two pulled until the bucket was balanced on the level of the door. Caranthir quickly looped the rope around the doorknob as Findekáno held on, and tied a sharp knot, hard to be undone.

After the deed was done, Findekáno, Caranthir, and Findárato ran for their lives with the pillow sack and empty jars of honey, away from the doorway, but not before Findaráto rapped the door sharply thrice. At that point, Findekáno had to drag Findárato away from the door and run with him down the hallway.

When they reached the safety of the play room again, they high-fived each other, panting.

"We did a great job," said Findekáno, smirking. "When we grow up, let's all be pranksters! We could ask Grandfather to make that a legal profession."

Findaráto nibbled his hand slightly, tasting honey. "What if Lady Calwilmë gets mad?"

Caranthir shook his head, and replied in a stubborn tone. "She made Silmalir cry—we're meting out justice."

"Yeah," said Findekáno, his eyes dark with agreement. "No one should make Silmalir cry."

But Findaráto argued the point. "But Makalaurë—he made her cry too."

Caranthir sighed and licked his honey-coated hand. "We'll leave Makalaurë for another day; besides, he doesn't mean it. Everyone in the royal family knows that Makalaurë really loves Silmalir and would rather die than really, actually marry someone else."

"Silmalir might not forgive him though," warned Findekáno.

"They love each other. I'm sure they will," assured Caranthir surely. "It was love at first sight. I still remember when he denied it—and now he can't even admit it without getting Atar disappointed. I feel sorry for him. He can't even be with the one he wants to be with."

Findaráto smiled sadly. "When I grow up, I don't think I'll be able to find someone I want to be with."

Findekáno shook his head. "There's someone for everybody."

"Then what about Indis?" challenged Caranthir. "If Grandmother hadn't died, then Queen Indis wouldn't have..." He trailed off. grimacing.

"I suppose," murmured Findekáno. Then he smiled at both of them. "We should get rid of the evidence."

And then, a scream could be heard from all around the palace. The three of them started and hurriedly went to the washroom to clean their hands and dispose of the honey jars.

* * *

><p><strong>This is to clear up a bit confusion, if there was any!<br>**Anyway, you should know that the Three Little Elflings are Team Silmalir.

**How are my readers doing? I'm so very sorry that I haven't been too active in posting chapters, but I finished this, 9:31 PM! **_**Hurra!**_

_And when she thought no one was near, she started to cry, slowly, and eventually  
>let the pain of knowledge consume her.<em>


	34. It Was I

**Have I ever told you how much I'm so glad that you readers have decided to stay with the story?  
><strong>I have to say - I have a low self-esteem. So I'm surprised you actually like Twisted.  
><strong>But thank you so much for staying with it!<strong>

I've altered the plot a little. I actually had no intention of bringing the Nendolor in, but then I decided that I could hint at the future. Remember, guys. The future is not set in stone (to the Elves, but Eru knows all - he's already written the Great Music), so Silmalir might not die. _Thanks for wondering._

Anyways...**here we go! This is one of the last chapters before the wedding reception!  
>Just so you know, <strong>_someone had to take the blame._

* * *

><p>"Those <em>little<em>—" gasped Lady Calwilmë, clenching her fists and releasing in a recursive process. "_How dare they..._"

She stood in the doorway, not quite believing it as honey slowly dripped off of her like sap. Heavy amounts had been put in the bucket, which had fallen to the floor next to her feet. Her eyes were closed, but if they had been open, someone would have had to answer to her anger.

"Lady Calwilmë?" a surprised voice said, sounding astounded.

There was also a gasp.

Lady Calwilmë opened her eyes, and to her mortification, Maitimo and Silmalir stood there awkwardly, a respectable distance between the two. Silmalir looked as if she was having trouble trying not to restrain her shock and amusement, and Maitimo was just plain-out shocked. She blew a feather out of her face and took up the bucket, stomping over to Maitimo. She knew exactly who would resort to such a low level to show their opposition.

She thrust the bucket, smeared with honey, into his hands and trudged back into her room, feeling a burning humiliation in her throat.

She was going to stay in her room until the end of time.

* * *

><p>"What do you think happened?" wondered Maitimo, still a bit surprised.<p>

Silmalir sighed, holding the bucket in her arms as she emitted a soft breath. "It was probably...you know. Caranthir, Findekáno, and Findaráto. Do you know where they could be?"

Then, suddenly, someone took hold of Silmalir's wrist and started to pull her away, saying, "You know, Fiondo needs you in the banquet hall to help set up the wedding. You've no time to be dallying around with Prince Nely—" The young Elf froze at the sight of Silmalir and stopped short of her rant, recognizing her abruptly. "My apologies, Lady Silmalir. I was distracted by your attire; I presumed you were a servant."

Silmalir shook her head. "I remain a servant. I deserve no such title as lady." On sudden inspiration, she asked the question that surprised both the young Elf and Maitimo. "When is the wedding, again?"

Maitimo cleared his throat awkwardly, resisting the urge to bite down on his lip as he pondered how to answer. "It is two days from now. Are you planning to leave before then?"

Oddly enough, Silmalir slowly blinked and smiled peculiarly, mechanically, as she responded, "I haven't decided. I'm vacillating at the moment."

They continued down the halls, the young servant leaving for the banquet hall, and the conversation was now awkward with that little scenario behind them. Maitimo couldn't find any words to say, and Silmalir wasn't thinking of any words to respond with. Soon, the grey pillars and stone foundation ended at the infirmary, where an open room of painted white was waiting. That was where Silmalir left him, returning to her rooms where she was planning to mull over her decisions. She left the bucket with him.

Lately, she hadn't been so sane, and it was a bit odd to find herself musing when she could start preventing her death.

She hadn't imagined herself to take it so calmly, but with the book that now lay before her, telling her that it was possible for a mere glass trinket to predict her death, she wasn't too sure about allowing nature to take its course.

Damn mirror.

There was a knocking at her door as she prepared to get up and return the book to where it belonged.

Then more desperate knocking as she took her time to walk over to it.

Silmalir opened the door, and to her surprise, three elflings stood outside, eyes wide with fright and apprehension. Caranthir pushed his two cousins inside and followed after, occasionally glancing back out of the halls until Silmalir closed the door behind them. And she stood before them, face stern as she took in their expressions.

"Why did you do that to Lady Calwilmë?" she questioned softy. "I don't recall her doing anything particularly horrid that you all had to - "

She stopped as she saw Findekáno and Findaráto hide behind the wardrobe. Caranthir ushered them between the space and started to explain rapidly as he put himself into the cache as well. Now, naturally, Silmalir cared nothing for Lady Calwilmë and found it amusing that the elflings had played the humiliating prank on her, and she had been there to witness it herself. But she had to look responsible, after all. Servants were responsible for cleaning up the mess that - no, she musn't think like that...

Caranthir and Silmalir stared at each other, in a mutual silence, for a while. There was whispering between Findekáno and Findaráto, the former trying to reassure the latter that they wouldn't be found out, and if they did, Findaráto wouldn't be harmed. It was the sudden sadness that took Silmalir by surprise; she wished that she had someone to reassure her doubts, and with a pang, she realised that she had pushed that one person away - farther away than retrievable.

She wished Fánamaril were here with her so they could mull over the situation together.

Suddenly, voices were audible and nearing her door. She gave Caranthir a curious look, wondering what was going on now.

It was answered when Lady Cawilmë's voice stopped right in front of her door and said, very clearly, "They went in here."

The book was still in her arms, though she had long forgotten it, but as the door opened and she saw Findekáno's father, she dropped it in surprise. "Prince Nolofinwë," she said uncertainly, trying to be polite. "What brings you to visit me at noon?"

Prince Nolofinwë looked grim as he answered. "I have been told that my son was involved in a scandalous scenario, and I am hear to confirm if it is true. Have you seen my son, and his young cousins?"

Silmalir felt a bit conflicted - should she tell the truth or lie? Either way, they were going to be caught, so the only way was... "I am sorry that you heard that your son was involved, my prince, but he was not. I assure you."

Eyebrows raised, Prince Nolofinwë continued. "Then, his cousins?"

Silmalir shook her head. "None of them were accomplices in this...ingenious scandal."

"Ingenious?" demanded Lady Calwilmë, her face progressively changing from pale to tinged with pink. There was still a hint of stickiness in her hair (though it blended in well with her hair colour), no matter how much she had tried to scrub, comb, scrape it out. "I do not find this funny, _Lady Silmalir_."

Slightly, Silmalir's stone grey eyes flashed darker, into a deeper color, taking on a stolid, unmovable, and intimidating impression of unyielding kingdom walls. "I am no lady, and I prefer my name without any titles that were not given to me at birth." Her mouth twisted into a curved, wild smile. "But, I know that the elflings have no hand in the matter, for it was I who committed what no one would dare do in a century. So, you have no need to search for them."

The lady's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?" she demanded, suspicious.

"You wish to know who played such a prank on you, correct?" Silmalir replied. "I did it. I take full responsibility. You can even ask Maitimo - when I accompanied him to the infirmary, I told him all about it. Unfortunately, the elflings were not present to witness your...initiation into the drenching of honey, but at least Maitimo was. Prince Nolofinwë, your son and nephews were not part of this fiasco at all. I just thought that...perhaps...the palace needed a bit cheering up."

"And the best way to do it was to dump honey on the bride?" Prince Nolofinwë asked her, not finding this amusing as she cracked another wicked smile. "I do not imagine anyone having such a sense of odd humour, Silmalir."

"I am truly sorry that you cannot find humour in mine," she replied, pretending to be sorrowful, but she gave Prince Nolofinwë an apologetic look, to show that she meant no offense. She calmly picked up the book from its sorry state on the floor and strode past the two Elves in her room, stopping right outside of the doorway. Then, she turned around and called loudly, "Come, you three! We can go to the library right now. I've been meaning to borrow this book that I wanted to show you all."

With ease, Caranthir, Findekáno, and Findaráto slid out from behind the wardrobe and slipped out of the room, leaving Prince Nolofinwë and Lady Calwilmë shocked to their spots inside of Silmalir's room.

But not before Lady Calwilmë grasped Silmalir's shoulder and gasped out, "Your behaviour is despicable!"

Silmalir's eyes returned with light, but there was still anger. "So said the lady who is getting married to the one I love. Tell me; do you rejoice as you see my broken heart? It takes much patience to deal with someone who has taken up the position of the wife to the beloved husband, in place of someone else. If it had been anyone other than me, I would pity your position with the shards of my shattered spirit."

Shocked, the hand dropped from Silmalir's shoulder.

Silmalir, as she walked down the hallway with her three little followers in tow, never realised that she could be so...detestable in behaviour. But it felt good to let off steam, so she allowed her anger to ebb away, knowing that she had gained a little victory back there, at her doorway.

However, it wasn't exactly appealing to let a half-uncle-in-law witness her insulting his soon-to-be relative.

Especially when it was Prince Nolofinwë.

* * *

><p><strong>Well, could you be more surprised than that?<br>I was surprised too.**


	35. Wrong

Makalaurë grimaced as he looked at himself in the mirror. A dark-haired Elf stared back at him, with forlorn, morose, and icy blue eyes. His countenance was despondent and sad, and he wondered why he even bothered to get up today.

_Who is that person in the mirror?_ he wondered to himself. _It certainly is not me... Is it?_

* * *

><p>When he was a child, Maitimo would tease him about his fascination with reflective objects. He was only five years old when he discovered 'himself' in the lake, watching with befuddlement as he stared back at himself. He was wide-eyed and innocent, with a cherub-like face of one untouched from harsh reality, blissfully ignorant of the sorrows of the world, of the land, of the people. He couldn't quite comprehend difficult matters, and his parents were always there when matters became too serious for him to handle, despite the fact that he was mature for his age.<p>

Slowly, Makalaurë poked his other self and jumped back when the water rippled.

"Makalaurë!" shouted Maitimo, as Makalaurë leaned back from the dock, trying to get away from whatever it was inside the water.

He had sat a little too close to the dock, and Maitimo had spotted him in a precarious position. Quickly, Maitimo scooped up his little brother from the wooden floorboards and held him close, glancing down at whatever had held his attention momentarily. All he saw was his reflection, blinking back at him with Makalaurë in his arms as well.

"What were you doing?" he asked softly.

Makalaurë pulled back slightly to look at Maitimo—to ensure that he wasn't angry. "I-I saw myself in the lake! Is that supposed to happen? Is there some sort of creature down there that takes the form of the person who looks it in the eye? Is it evil? Is it something that eats disobedient little kids? Is it—"

Maitimo placed a finger to his lips and shook his head, silencing him. "That, Kano, was your reflection. He is you. You are him. You are simply look at yourself from another view. You normally cannot see your face, correct?" Makalaurë nodded. "Well, we the Elves developed a way to look at ourselves, so we could right our appearance. Thus, an ingenious invention called the mirror was invented. But it wasn't really invented—since there have been hints of things like mirrors before we even came up with the idea of the mirror. We just...refounded it, I suppose."

"Then...why did you shout my name?"

"You were sitting a little too close to the water; any unbalanced force could have sent you flying into the water, and I wouldn't have been there quickly in time to save you from falling in."

Makalaurë smiled sheepishly. "Sorry..."

Maitimo smiled back and knocked their foreheads together gently, giving his little brother an affection look. "It's all right... Just be careful from now, okay?" He received a nod, rubbing against his own forehead.

* * *

><p><em>Maybe it is me, <em>Silmalir thought, sighing to herself as she gripped the edge of the basin, glancing down at the silver tap.

Silmalir had always been curious about mirrors - what made them reflect people's images?

* * *

><p>"Atar! Atar!" Silmalir exclaimed, sounding distressed.<p>

Lord Almarawë came stumbling down the hallway, wondering what had caused his daughter to sound bothered. And then his answer met him as he rounded the corner, seeing Silmalir balanced on a long wooden table, looking at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were wide from where he could see, and he was reminded of his wife's eyes. It was really too bad that she couldn't be here right now to see her daughter discover the mirror; instead, she was on a trip to Taniquetil to visit her cousin-in-law.

"What's wrong, my little Silmalir?" he asked anyway. It was always best to let the answer come out from the person who needed it explained.

Silmalir turned to her father, looking confused as she glanced back at the mirror. "Why... Why is there someone who looks like me?" she asked, her voice quivering with slight fear. "Is this...? Am I—am I going to be replaced?"

He almost wanted to laugh at the preposterous idea that she presented him, but he figured that it would make her even more anxious. He shook his head seriously and walked over to his daughter, placing his hands on her small shoulders. "Silmalir, we would never replace you—ever. You are too dear to us, and no one could ever take your place. I promise you." Then he turned her around slightly so she faced the mirror once more, and he bent down close to her to whisper in her ear.

"There are two of you as well!" she cried, even more surprised. She did not move, but she glanced at her father behind her.

"This is a mirror," he spoke softly. "It shows our reflections...so there are not really two of us. You, Silmalir, are seeing yourself in the mirror, for the mirror is showing you yourself as much as it can, as long as you are in view of it." He reached out a hand, and Lord Almarawë in the mirror reached out as well, and their (his) hands met at the looking-glass. "We use this special trinket to look at ourselves...because we are a vain race. The Noldor do not use it as much as the Vanyar, but we still are quite proud of our appearances. Are you proud of yours?"

"They shouldn't have made mirrors," Silmalir declared after some thought. "Someone else might have had a fit, seeing his or her double! I know I did!"

He chuckled and ruffled her daughter's soft dark hair. "You have much still to learn, Silmalir, but I know you'll try your best. And I'm proud of you for taking it so well."

Silmalir grinned toothily at her father at the mirror, and he saw. Then he smiled as well and kissed the top of her head, and she watched him in their reflection.

"I love you, Atar," she said truthfully.

It was times like these that Lord Almarawë would feel his heart ache with happiness. "And you know I love you too, my little Silmalir," he replied.

Silmalir raised her hand to the mirror and touched her reflection's face.

* * *

><p>Makalaurë moved from the mirror and turned away, grimacing to himself as he realised that he was even too cowardly to face himself. He shrugged off the dark blue robe, hemmed with black, and pulled off the other articles of clothing that he wore beneath the robe. After pulling his hair back away from his face and holding it together with a leather band, he pulled on an old tunic and old pants that he had used for hunting with Tyelkormo (when the latter was bored out of his mind and needed someone to hunt with).<p>

He turned back around and turned the tap, splashing his face with cold water, willing himself to wake up from what had to be a nightmare. Then he looked up, faced the mirror, and patted his face, trying to smile.

He couldn't, the first couple of tries.

Even when he succeeded on the fifteenth try, it seemed to be faked and insincere.

It frightened him, that he was no longer capable of smiling with radiance. He tugged at the neckline of the tunic and sighed, pulling it away from his collarbone. It felt uncomfortable to be dressed in robes for too long, and he was starting to feel a bit jumpy.

"What have I done to myself?" he asked himself. "What have I done...to everyone? To Fánamaril, to Maitimo, to Tyelkormo, to the elflings... To Silmalir?"

When no answer came to him, Makalaurë pulled his arm back slightly, trying to get a better view of his eyes.

And then his fist went flying into the mirror, causing shards of glass to rebound, to get caught in his hand, to shower him with fragments, to...to...

Red flowed down his hand, down the broken mirror, covering his skin with a crimson velvet sheet, coloring the glass a startling deep scarlet.

He leaned close to the reflection that was still there, staring back at him as he looked.

"_Wrong_," he hissed. He didn't even care anymore.

* * *

><p>Lady Calwilmë came from a family of noble standing, from Taniquetil. She loved sparkling things, and especially trinkets such as sparkling jewels, gems, and artifacts that shone in the light of Laurelin and Telperion. Her father loved her very much, but...<p>

_Dear Calwilmë,_

_How are you doing in Tirion? I hear that you were asked to pretend to marry a son of the Crown Prince. Are you having fun? Does it feel nice to live in an actual palace? Imagine - this is where your mother and I were born. At the very palace. It is probably different than from a thousand years ago. I hope you are well, my daughter. Your mother sends her regards as well, but recently, her temper hasn't been so enduring. I think it's a sign that she misses you very much._

Calwilmë knew the real reason why; she could never seem to satisfy her mother's wishes, or earn her approval.

_"Pah! Pretend to marry? Tell him to propose to you truthfully and just get married! There is no need to waste your time in Tirion unless you are doing something productive!" _her mother had told her before she left for the palace.

Her aunt, Lady Finienel, had visited the palace, but she was forced to leave before her stay was over because of an incident, misunderstanding, and fiasco with a servant of the palace. She couldn't believe, however, that the very same servant was the one who Prince Kanafinwë dearly loved. She could tell—he could barely focus when the topic was centered on her, but when asked about Lady—er, _Silmalir_, he could easily carry on a conversation, but with a melancholy expression.

She could only imagine if he was asked to describe his love for her; it would probably go on forever.

And it was obvious that the elflings had done the prank and doused her in honey—but why had Silmalir taken the blame for it? Elflings, they should be punished for things that they did wrong. Her Ammë always followed by this protocol, and Calwilmë agreed. Her father was a bit more relaxed in punishment, and it wasn't so severe. But she would never take punishment willingly, and especially not for someone else. Perhaps that was the difference between her and Silmalir—Silmalir had the will of stone, and her eyes reflecting that strong, powerful spirit inside of her body.

However, Lady Calwilmë couldn't just let that slight on her honor slide. Someone was going to be punished.

* * *

><p>Fána ran—ran <em>far <em>from that hallway corner. Not even Oromë could have beat the urgency of the matter. She rushed away, the skirt of her dress billowing after her as she moved one foot in front of the other quickly. Her eyes were starting, strangely enough, to water, and she didn't understand why.

Why did her eyes sting?

Why should she care about one little...

For one moment, she kissed back, pressing forward and wrapping her arms around his neck to pull him closer and closer...and then she pushed him away, eyes widened at the realisation of what she had just done. That's when she fled the scene.

_It was nothing,_ she tried to tell herself, as she tore out of the Entrance Hall and out of the palace as well. _He has probably kissed plenty of girls... It's nothing..._

Oh, who was she kidding?

* * *

><p><strong>So, a lot of drama is going on. Yep.<br>**One day before the wedding, after today in the chapter! Who's prepared for the final event?  
>Oh, by the way, I have deleted scenes from this story that I didn't post on here...but they go before this tragic event in which Makalaurë totally screwed up. After I finish this, stop procrastinating, actually get working on the sequel (I'm kind of wavering), then I shall try to type it onto the document. It was hand-written three months ago, most of them, usually during nights when I couldn't sleep.<br>**Sadly, most of my awesome ideas come because I can't find anything else to think of. Shows how much I think about, eh?**

Let me tell you how _awkward_ it was, writing that scene about Fána.  
><strong>I couldn't keep a straight face. I'm one of those people who can read stuff like this, but when I have to write it myself, I get squeamish.<strong>


	36. Ancamir

**I pondered whether or not to add this in. It could be considered a filler chapter, actually. However, there's going to be one last chapter before the wedding chapter.  
>Remember guys; I'll have to act this out with my cousin in order to make it seem realistic.<strong>

So, if you see a laughing remark at the end of that chapter, it's probably Freyr, making some smart comment about how stupid it was at first.

**Wish me luck?**

_Ancamir:_ jaws of jewel  
><em>Isilalas: <em>moon marble  
><em>Alunter: <em>leather lord

* * *

><p>Tomorrow was the day of the wedding. Silmalir couldn't bring herself to storm out of the palace and put on an immense show for all those who loved drama. Despite all that had been done to her, she couldn't wreck Makalaurë's happy day. However, by the look on his face when she passed him by in the infirmary, one would have thought that he was walking to his demise. She would have laughed, had she not been hiding in the shadows, seeking to hide herself from view.<p>

Perhaps she just didn't love him enough to tell him that she hated the fact that he was getting married to someone else.

No...that couldn't be true.

She did sneak out of the palace though.

It was quite easy if you had a _ilsa-cambo_ direct you around the secret passages of the hallways to sneak out successfully.

Silmalir dressed in what she hoped was a male Elf. And then she slipped into a tavern and sat down at the counter, glancing around. The walls were dark brown and smelled of alcohol and mahogany. Then, without even raising her hand or calling for something, a glass was placed in front of her. She blinked and looked up at the hand's owner, meeting the blue eyes of a smiling Elf.

"I...didn't order," she started to say, but he shook his head.

"You look down, so it's on the house." Then he smiled charmingly. "Such a pretty lady shouldn't seem so sad..."

She tried hard to smile back. "Thanks."

He chuckled, catching note of her forced smile. "Don't push yourself."

Then she realised that she was still recognisable as a female and sighed, leaning against the counter as she glanced out of the window. The sky was amass with clouds, some marshmallow white and some grey as stone. She bit her lip and glanced back at the glass of whatever it was. It was a crimson red, much like the color of blood. Before she could process it, the Elf was back before her again, his smile almost enlightening and lifting as he looked into her eyes.

"What is this?" she asked slowly.

"_Ancamir_. Best in Tirion, it is."

"Alunter! Get the _Isilalas _out!" Alunter gave Silmalir one last smile before slipping away to the other side of the tavern, skillfully flipping a barrel right-side up and popping the cork in it.

Silmalir held the glass up to her mouth and hesitantly tasted it. Then, with a decisiveness surprising even herself, she tilted the glass upwards and downed the entire glass in one gulp. The _ancamir_ burned down her throat rapidly, and she quickly placed the glass on the table, cupping her throat tentatively to check if it had burst into flame. Her eyesight started to blur, and she got from her seat, stumbling out of the tavern quickly as she tried to catch her breath.

The taste was sharp, like citrus, and it was defeating her bodily systems quickly, pooling through her veins a thread of fire.

She tried to keep a straight path on the streets, and the buildings seemed higher than ever as she walked beside them, flattening her right palm against the concrete for support. Breathing in and out, she shut her eyes and knelt down onto the cobblestone, throat still aching with the remnants of fire. That liquid was truly enflaming.

"Silmalir? Are you alright?"

Silmalir looked up, eyes opening slowly. At first, she thought it to be her mother, with the same grey eyes as before. She tried to blink a few more times, knowing that her mother was dead. Then she chastised herself for thinking that it had been her maternal figure—the Elf had blonde hair. She was severely off in her assessment of the person in front of her.

"I'm sorry," she said slowly, trying to phrase out her words before she said something stupid. "I don't think I...recognise you." Then she repeated her first sentence. "I'm sorry. Truly."

Light, sharp blue eyes narrowed as they scrutinised her. "You're intoxicated, aren't you?"

Silmalir shook her head, but then her mind almost turned to mush as she did so, so she held herself straight. "I prefer to say that I am simply dazed...but if that's what drinking _ancamir_ does, then I suppose I am intoxicated... Oh dear, I'm rambling."

"Silmalir." The voice was worried. It was a nice, warm voice, like a motherly tone to a child who had just come home injured. "Are you alright?"

"I'm not intoxicated," she mumbled under her breath, standing up slowly. Then her voice rose. "I really must be getting back to the palace now... I think I am to prepare dinner with Rinaquinë, and she won't be happy if I simply shirk my duties because I am not currently right in the mind."

"I'll tell Rinaquinë to excuse you from your duties," replied the voice. "Here, let me help you. You are quite drunk, and I do not wish for you to end up somewhere other than your bed."

"I'm not tired," Silmalir protested, trying to walk forward.

However, hands prevented her from doing so and turned her back around. Trying to maintain her energy, she didn't resist and allowed herself to be walked away from the spot she had been kneeling on. Nails slightly dug into her arms, but she paid it no mind.

The question was killing her; she had no choice but to voice her curiosity. "Who are you?" she asked.

"Oh, Silmalir... I am Queen Indis."

At this statement, Silmalir tripped over her feet and fell to the ground. "What an anticlimactic moment," she said.

* * *

><p><strong>Sorry this is so short, but I really wasn't able to expand into being intoxicated, because I've never been intoxicated.<strong>


	37. Tomorrow

Silmalir groaned as she fell back into the chair, head spinning as if the world was purposely shaking the air around her. She had no idea where she was, for one, and the _ancamir_ was starting to water her eyes, the walk from the streets to the palace causing her legs to ache greatly. She opened her eyes once more and tried to shake her head free of the dizziness, and there was no surprise when it did not work in the least.

"Poor dear," said Indis, placing a hand on her forehead softly.

Cautiously, Silmalir sat up in her chair and sighed. "My head hurts..."

Indis sighed. "You weren't intoxicated, but the wine must have gotten to your head a bit. Was it your first time?"

Silmalir started to nod, but then, she held her hands up to her mouth and shot up quickly, running over to the washroom and vomiting the wine into the pot meant for excretory purposes. Then she sat back on her heels and coughed.

"Never drinking again," Silmalir declared weakly.

With the grace of a queen, Indis brought her up to full height, only slightly shorter than Silmalir by what seemed to be two centimeters. As she led her to the couch to sit down, her hand rubbed warm circles on the Elf's back. "What pushed you to resort to alcohol?" she asked softly. "Is it the wedding?"

Obviously, Silmalir still wasn't in her right mind. "Why would he marry her?" Silmalir said instead, disregarding the formal address. "How did he...end up loving her? Why doesn't he... He doesn't love me. He doesn't love me!"

"Silmalir...he does... He really does—you just have to believe us when we tell you he does—" Indis tried to tell her.

"How!" Silmalir demanded. "How can I believe anyone when I've been lied to all this time! By him, by his brothers, by Fána, by _you!_ I don't even know you, but you're already trying to lure me into a false sense of security! I'm not going to... I can't... I won't fall for this!"

Silmalir's shouting and Indis' frantic pleading brought attention to Prince Fëanáro, who had been walking down these halls and past Indis' chambers on accident. Upon hearing the apparent discordance in the queen's bedchambers, he sighed and opened the door, wondering if the queen had started to fight with her maid, when he abruptly stopped in his tracks as the door opened to reveal Silmalir and Indis, but standing, and both looking confused as he stood there in the doorway.

"Curufinwë," Indis said in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"I heard discordance."

Silmalir shook her head, stepped back as it started to hurt, and bowed apologetically towards Queen Indis and Prince Fëanáro. "I'm very sorry... I was yelling...and I don't remember why." Indis quickly looked to Silmalir worriedly. Fëanáro caught this glance and turned to Silmalir as well.

"You do not remember?" they repeated at the same time.

"No. I am very sorry, Prince Fëanáro, Queen Indis. I shall take my leave now, under your pardon."

Fëanáro and Indis exchanged glances—then Fëanáro caught himself at the last moment and looked away as Silmalir exited the room.

"Your cursed plan," fumed Indis, sitting down on the couch. "Why did you come up with such an idea? Now her mentality is deteriorating! She can not remember what happened five minutes ago, she went out and got drunk, and best of all, she hasn't shed a single tear! Tell me, is this revenge?"

"Revenge," Fëanáro repeated. "You know naught of revenge, my queen. There is only revenge for those who have been wronged, to make havoc on someone else. I am not doing this for the purpose of tearing her apart."

"Then you are tearing them both apart!"

He frowned. "Do you not see your hypocritical tone of voice?"

"And when have I ever taken it upon myself to tear you apart from Nerdanel?" she replied, curling her fingers into fists.

"Your narrow-minded perspective astounds me, queen. When was it only limited to romance? What of platonic love? What of the love that you took from me, the love of my—" Stopping himself, he took in a deep breath and closed his eyes, trying to replace the mask of reserve. Speaking with Indis always caused his temperature to rise several notches. "My composure is rapidly crumbling apart. I will leave. I am very sorry for the inconvenience, my queen. Have a nice day."

* * *

><p>"Silmalir!"<p>

She recognised that voice. She recognised it and was so joyous that she turned around immediately, wincing when her head started to spin again. To her immense rush of happiness, there was Fánamaril, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes.

And then, Silmalir felt her heart drop when she saw tears in those sparkling eyes.

"Fánamaril! What happened?" She took off running towards her friend. "What's wrong? You're crying!"

Fánamaril stopped. "What do you mean?" she asked, wiping her own tears away. "You're crying too."

"I am?" Silmalir hesitantly felt her cheeks. Indeed, they were wet. "They are." She was confused. "Why am I crying then?"

The last question had to be so utterly ridiculous that Silmalir covered her mouth with a sigh. Both of them eyed each other, scrutizining each other's expressions. Fánamaril knew why she was crying, no matter how much she might have wanted to forget it, but she didn't know why Silmalir was crying, though there were plenty of good reasons why. Silmalir, on the other hand, didn't know why Fánamaril was crying, much less herself.

But Silmalir found that she didn't want to know why she was crying. "No, forget that question. Why are _you_ crying, Fána?"

"Because I..." Fánamaril faltered in her sentence. "Tyelkormo."

"Did he hurt you?"

"No, he wouldn't have done such a thing!" Fánamaril exclaimed, immediately coming to his defense. I could almost see what had happened. "He just...kissed me."

"And you're crying because he kissed you," Silmalir repeated, eyebrow raising as she wiped away her tears, and then Fána's. "Did you run away from him? Where is he? Did he apologise for kissing you or was it on purpose?"

"I do not know!" she cried in despair.

Silmalir sighed. "Okay, we will get this all sorted out, all right? Let's just go back to the chambers and - "

"Wait," said Fána, her moment of despair gone. "Why were you crying?"

Then Silmalir's headache worsened, and she resisted the urge to press her fingertips - no, _dig_ her fingertips - into her temples. "I just got drunk, intoxicated, and threw up in the presence of Queen Indis. And then Tyelkormo's father came in and saw Queen Indis and I shouting. That wasn't exactly the best encounter I'd imagined with him."

"And you're sober now?"

"With a major headache."

Fánamaril shook her head. "Let us go to the infirmary to get something for it."

But Silmalir decided against it. "I would really rather endure the pain. It makes me focus less on my surroundings and more on the pounding in my head." Seeing Fána's skeptical look, she tried to smile. "I am not being a masochist or anything. Honestly. It is just that I really would like to be distracted. It's really hard to...focus on anything other than the wedding. It's tomorrow, right?"

Fána's face fell. "We don't have to talk about it if - "

"No, I want to know. I want to know about the wedding."

"Everyone's really excited," Fánamaril said in a low whisper, stepping closer to Silmalir. "But not in the good way," she added. "All of the servants are wondering why Makalaurë suddenly had a change of heart, since last time they checked...you know." Fánamaril took in a deep breath. "But you know what? He didn't. He doesn't like Lady Calwilmë."

"She said it herself."

"And you're going to believe Calwilmë over me?"

"Well, _he_ left me at a damn tree to go with Calwilmë."

Fánamaril threw her hands up in frustration at everything. "That's because little Curufinwë had been born, and Makalaurë was worried that it might have exhausted his mother! It hadn't been on purpose... But I mean, what he's doing now is really idiotic and horrible, but he's being forced. I promise you. Even though it completely makes him look like he doesn't have a backbone, because he probably doesn't right now, he didn't mean to agree with it!"

Silmalir tried really hard to comprehend what was being said. "Forced? Forced into what?" She took Fánamaril by the shoulders. "_What was he forced to do?"_

"To m—" It seemed that Silmalir would forever remained uninformed of the important circumstances, for Lady Alquasar appeared around the corner, a shocked look on her face as her golden ringlets shifted with her movement. She looked beautiful - even more so than Indis. But she didn't look too happy.

"You have been drinking!" she exclaimed.

Silmalir stepped back in alarm. "Lady Alquasar—"

But she was cut off. "I cannot believe you, Silmalir! You have much more self-respect than that to go off drinking in one of the roughest taverns in Tirion!" Fánamaril turned to Silmalir in shock, but Lady Alquasar was not finished in her accusations. Her truthful, stinging accusations. "Your father would have not wanted to see you like this!" And that was the final chord, for Silmalir knew Lady Alquasar was right. She was inexorably correct.

Silmalir bowed her head. "I am sorry."

"You are sorry," Lady Alquasar repeated.

She hated how she was being treated as a child. Under a appalled gaze and a disappointed one, she could not take the pressure. "I snapped." Then she guiltily allowed her mind to wander back to the confrontation with Indis and Fëanáro. She had lied to get away, saying she did not remember. Had she provoked their worry? And now, she was admitting to drinking. What the hell.

"I snuck out of the palace this morning," Silmalir continued. "I snuck out, went to the tavern, and this Elf came up to me with a glass of _ancamir_. He wanted to cheer me up. Then I ingested the glass of wine. I went out of the tavern, my head started spinning, and I noticed that Queen Indis was standing before me."

Lady Alquasar not only looked disapproving, but now shocked as the Queen was brought into these affairs. "_Queen__ Indis?"_

"I vomited in front of her," she added.

"You are not allowed to drink anything anymore!" Lady Alquasar exclaimed, her cheeks flushing at the thought of Queen Indis witnessing such a horrifying scene. "I want your word, Silmalir!" Silmalir started to turn away; a curt nod was the only thing exchanged, and Fánamaril made to follow after her, ready to demand answers, but Lady Alquasar stopped them both. "Silmalir! Your word! Your promise!"

The girl turned around, a dark frown on her face. "You will have my word when the wedding is over." Then she laughed harshly. "I imagine I'll need twenty glasses of _ancamir_ to be drunk senseless enough so I won't have to focus on the celebration."

* * *

><p>Calwilmë sat at the desk of her room, staring mindlessly at the window. The honey had come out, certainly, but Silmalir's words, stinging, were on her mind. Her eyes wandered to the quill in drowning in the ink well, and she sighed, knowing that she would not be able to think clearly unless she wrote a response to her father's letter.<p>

_Dear Atar,_

_Yes, Tirion's fine. But I just really wish to come home now... How is Ammë doing? Is she still tending to matters at court? __Anyway, I just wished to ask after your health. I know that recently you have been having trouble hunting, what with your breathing problems and all, but I really hope you do not overdo yourself. If I lost you, I don't think I would have anyone else left who cares..._

In frustration, she scratched out the last line with bitter vigor, at last crumpling the paper in her hands as she placed her head on the table, sighing. She left the quill tip to drown in the ink well once more and fingered her sleeve absentmindedly. Everything was such a mess...

The only way to set this right...was to say no.

She wanted to go back to her people.

* * *

><p>Makalaurë hit his head against the wall once more. He had been pacing around in his room for the past twenty minutes, trying to think of a way to resolve all of this. Every solution involved offending Calwilmë, hurting Silmalir, and permanently trapping him in bitterness. Whatever the solution was, however, it would disobey his father. But he couldn't find a reason to care about such things now. Tyelkormo had gone into his room an hour ago, a helpless look on his face.<p>

Then he exited through the second-story window, unable to be restrained within a closed space for more than an hour.

It seemed that they both had problems, but time was running out—too little time was alotted to help them solve this. Obviously, Fánamaril had done something to alter Tyelkormo's personality. He used to be so damn arrogant, and now he was soft mush in her hands.

"_She is driving me crazy—no,_ insane!"_ exclaimed Tyelkormo, running a hand through his hair too roughly and pulling his braid out into disarray. "Varda's stars, what have I _done?_"_

_"Shouldn't I be asking myself that question?" Makalaurë told him, his frustration running deep. "I have screwed up so badly, and you're here asking what _you_ have done? Valar, you must have murdered someone if you're asking yourself that! If you're asking _me _that!"_

_Tyelkormo sighed. "Why are our lives so screwed up now? Why can it not go back to the way it was? I liked the palace better, but now I cannot stand the sight of it unless she is within the vicinity!"_

_"Easy for you to say—when I see her, I know_ she_ cannot stand the sight of _me," _Makalaurë replied. "I'm assuming you are speaking of Fána?"_

_"And you are speaking of Silmalir," Tyelkormo returned, leaning aganist the stony wall. "Maitimo is quite lucky, not falling in love... What say you that he will fall in love with Lady Aicelen or Lady Lohtilin? Perhaps we should not have... But I am not even sure I love Fána, whereas you most definitely, _infinitely_ love Silmalir, except you are being an absolute jackass, with what you are doing now." At Makalaurë's sigh, ready to admit that Tyelkormo was right, his brother intercepted him. "Honestly, you love her, and you don't even stand up for it. Why do you let Atar push you around like that, damn it!"_

_And then he wrenched open the window, pulling the drapes away and stepping outside with a final, restrained glance that sent Makalaurë stepping back._

Makalaurë had kept silent. He knew, so much, with so much pain, that he was never the favorite son, the one whom Atar would have chosen to go to Aulë with when developing some sort of new craft. He wasn't athletic, and nor was he notorious for his temper or his appearance, but his voice stood out. And what good did that do? Valar, he didn't know. He was a disappointment to the family.

Ammë tried to convince him otherwise, but he was always the brother who sang everyone else to sleep on dreamless nights.

His father. Or Silmalir. Which one? He couldn't discern them now as his head swam with the images of them both, frowning each other. No...frowning at _him._

They both had those stony grey eyes, the walls of unyielding kingdoms, and though soft they would be, terrible would they become, as if the sun had frozen over, casting grey shadow where light was not—and so became the kingdom of mist, the kingdom of smoke, wispy shadow, their eyes reflecting upon the stone foundation once they were angered. They were alike. Why had Makalaurë not noticed this before?

Deciding against wounding his bandaged hand, he slid down the wall in silence and held his head in his hands, one aching in pain and one just numb.

Tomorrow was the wedding.

Tomorrow was the end of his life.

* * *

><p><strong>I am so, <em>so<em> sorry for having this so late. I'd like to think I've improved a bit and given most of my characters some substance. Or not.**

**Heh.**


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